


Kyla 'Drabbles'

by Tub



Series: New Kyla [2]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Angst and Drama, Anxiety, Blood and Gore, Class Differences, Confessions, Depression, Drama & Romance, Drowning, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Eating Disorders, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Everyone Is Gay, Fatherhood, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Love Triangles, M/M, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Parenthood, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Drama, Revolution, Romance, Schmoop, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Social Anxiety, Violence, Vomiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2019-10-25 14:25:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 61,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17726921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tub/pseuds/Tub
Summary: Short stories and studies of Staldar's life.Stories are in vaguely chronological order.





	1. The Kylan Boy and The Fox

* * *

**_“The Kylan Boy and The Fox”_ **

* * *

 

Staldar lets out a bark of shock as he hits the ground wrong, a frightening, muffled  _ crack _ resounding upon impact as his arm meets stone. It doesn’t actually hurt right away, but there’s a jarring sense of wrongness, then followed by heat and the roar of pain along his nerve endings, pain that makes him instinctively curl to protect the injured limb. An unwilling whimper spills from his clenched teeth, breathing fast and shallow, feeling dizzy and sick and the pulse of  _ hurt, hurt hurt _ , it’s too much, he’s never felt this before, it’s too much.

 

He cries.

 

It’s almost worse than the pain, giving into the need to cry, but the pain wins.

 

“H-help--!” The little panicked sob slips out, looking to one of the awaiting clerics that watches their training. The cleric starts to step forward, but a figure crosses in front of his face, blocking their path.

 

“No,” the figure says mildly. “No healing, not yet.” They kneel down and Staldar sees her. The matron. “You landed incorrectly. Why did you not use the correct form to follow through with the fall?”

 

“I-I’m s-sorry,” Staldar hiccoughs, trying to get his erratic breathing under control but failing.

 

“I don’t want apologies. I want improvement.”

 

“Y-yes, ma-ma’am.” He tries to pull himself up, but the movement causes a fresh, electric wave of agony, and he buckles under it, crying out. “It h-hu-hurts,” he stutters between quick breaths, looking up pleadingly. He can barely see her through the blur of tears.

 

“Then let it. Feel it, and let it hurt. That’s the price of your mistake.” She says it softly, with an unwarranted gentleness. “Get up.”

 

“But--!” He wants to get up. He wants to obey. He can do it right, he knows he can, if she would just let the healer…

 

The matron just sighs, standing up.

 

“You  _ can _ get up, if you are strong enough. And you  _ are  _ strong enough.” She waits a moment, as if to give him a chance to follow the order, but he still can’t bring himself to move, afraid. “You just won’t. That’s fine. I’ll tell you a story, while you decide whether or not you can get up.

 

“Before there was New Kyla, the Kyla we know today, there was Kyla-Rhonin, and while it’s history is shrouded in uncertainty, we do have some of its stories. One of these stories is of a boy, much like you.

 

“Kyla-Rhonin was strong. All of its children were taught from a young age to be strong, brave, and skilled, given difficult tests and tasks to prove themselves. One of their tests was to steal without being caught. It mattered not what they stole, so long as they could prove their cunning and determination. To be caught meant utter disgrace and failure.

 

“One boy saw that a man was raising fox cubs as pets, and decided he wanted one for himself. The fox cub put up no fight as the boy took him, but the owner noticed soon after its disappearance and went looking for it. The boy, realizing the owner would find him, hid the fox cub under his clothes and robes, near to his belly, concealing him well. The owner suspects nothing as he approaches the boy.

 

“Of course, the fox grows agitated and fierce at this mistreatment, stuffed inside of his robes, so he bites and scratches the boy. But the boy is strong-willed, resilient, and refuses to fail his task, so he bears the savage attack without a grimace or sound as the owner speaks with him. Even as the fox tears at him, eating through him so as to escape, the boy holds on, neither flinching nor falling.

 

“Only once the owner has left, unaware that anything was wrong, does the boy collapse, releasing the fox. His friends question him, berating him for letting the fox maim him so, to the point of death. But the dying boy tells them this: ‘better to die without yielding to the pain than to gain a life to be lived in disgrace.’” Her grim story comes to an end, Staldar blinking up, pained and perplexed. “If you are to serve Kyla, you must always put your mission before yourself. You will not always have access to a healer or potion, but you must be strong enough not to rely on them to begin with. You must carry on, even when it hurts. Do you understand?”

 

He does. At least, he thinks he does.

 

“Yes, ma’am,” he says hoarsely, breathing now calmed, tears ceasing their flow. Despite the gruesome tale and the excruciating nature of his injury, her presence brings calm with it. Her voice soothes.

 

“Good. Then get up.”

 

Staldar slowly, shakily stands, holding his injured arm snugly to his side with his uninjured arm. Tall as he is for his age, the elven woman still stands a full head taller, looking down at him. She smiles.

 

“Excellent.” She stands aside and allows the cleric to heal his arm, and he nearly sighs in relief. “Now, perform the landing roll correctly this time. Go again.”

 

He’s sure to make fewer mistakes from then on.

 

When he does make them, he conceals the resulting pain.

 

The boy didn’t die until he let the fox out.

 

* * *

 


	2. The Breaking Point

* * *

**_“The Breaking Point”_ **

* * *

 

Staldar gasps as he takes another hit to the gut, staggering back, bent double, holding himself with shaking arms. He pants hard, coughing, mouth and nose dripping, one eye already swelling shut. He digs his claws into the ground, baring his teeth at his opponent. The elven man just watches him coldly, tapping his cane against the stone floor. His voice is calm, devoid of emotion.

 

“Fight.”

 

“Please, stop--”

 

“No.”

 

“ _ Please!” _

 

“Fight, or you will die, boy.”

 

Staldar doesn’t say anything to that, bracing himself for the attack he knows is coming. The man sighs before lashing out with the cane once more. Staldar dodges the first slash, but he’s slowly becoming more sluggish, and with one eye closed, he’s blindsided, receiving a hit to his ribs. He yelps, but manages to stay upright. He knows if he falls, the man will lay into him, maybe even make good on his promise of killing him.

 

“You’re strong. You’re quick. If you wanted, this could be over. Why do you resist?”

 

“Please, what did I  _ do _ , what did I do wrong? I-I’ll train harder, I’ll do better--”

 

“Do as you’re told. Fight back.”

 

“I don’t want to fight, I just… Give me another order, I’ll make up for it, I’ll do anything.”

 

“Your order is to fight. Disobedience means death. Those are your options; fight, or die. Now, choose.”

 

“I--I--,” Staldar whimpers, preparing to defend himself again.

 

The elf swings, and Staldar catches it fully across the nose, stumbling with the momentum of it, the pain forcing tears to fall. A growl builds in his throat. The next swing comes and he manages to duck. On the third, he surprises himself, grabbing the cane. The elf’s placid expression breaks into a pleased grin, and suddenly, Staldar wants to break every perfect, pearly tooth in his head. The low growl turns into a snarl, and he pushes back against the cane, and then they are nose to nose, both pushing against the length of burnished wood.

 

“ _ There _ it is. You’re angry, aren’t you? Frustrated? In pain? Use it. Channel it. Fight back.”

 

“Why do I have to fight you?  _ Why _ ?”

 

“Because you must.”

 

“ _ WHY?! _ ”

 

“You forget yourself. It’s not your place to ask questions. You simply must because you must. Because you were told to.”

 

The elf shoves hard, and Staldar is forced back, reeling. But this time, he charges forward once more, and swipes with his claws. The elf blocks with the cane, Staldar’s claws scratching through the wood, leaving gauges. The elf laughs.

 

“ _ Excellent _ ! Show me what you’re made of, boy, c’mon, show me your  _ teeth _ !”

 

Staldar just snarls, striking again, claws extended, and the elf, unprepared, gets raked across the face. He stumbles backwards, dropping the cane with a hiss, hands covering his face. When he removes his hand, Staldar sees four perfect, red claw marks down his cheek, and he feels sick. The elf looks surprised, then he smiles again.

 

“Good start. Show me more. Let’s go.”

 

The elf dashes forward, fist pulled back, and Staldar meets him, dodging, parrying, trading blows. The elf, however, is too skilled, knows too much about fighting, is toying with the young dragonborn, and Staldar is already weakened, limbs trembling from pain and exhaustion.

 

He’s had enough.

 

With a hard shove, he sends the elf windmilling back, and then he does something he didn’t even know he could do.

 

He roars. Loud. Guttural. Angry.

 

And as he roars, something in his throat opens up, but it’s strange, something more than his body, and there’s a rush of energy, magical, crackling,  _ draconic  _ energy. A spout of icy wind, cold rushing air and tiny icy shards, like a concentrated blizzard, flows from his mouth, focused right at the elf. The elf summons a magical barrier in a rush, barely escaping the force of the freezing blast.

 

The rush of cold energy finally tapers off after a long moment, leaving a sheet of spikey, crystalline ice along the ground and built up against the magical barrier, which the elf releases. Staldar sways and finally falls to his hands and knees, panting, trembling, fighting the darkness the creeps around the edge of his vision.

 

The elf calmly side steps all the ice, making his way to the dragonborn, before crouching down by his head. He speaks quietly, in a soothing voice.

 

“It’s alright, it’s over. You’re done for now. You did well. Be proud! Next week you’ll receive an official rank and your real training can begin. You’ve earned it.”

 

The elf whistles, and two more elves come in carrying a stretcher between them.

 

Staldar finally collapses, unconscious.

 

His last thought is of turning fifteen in just under a week.

* * *

  
  



	3. Down a Peg

* * *

**_“Down a Peg”_ **

* * *

 

  
  


“Alrigh’, what’s yer deal, dragon boy?”

 

Staldar pauses his crunches out in the training yard just long enough to look up for the source of the voice. A young dwarf man stands over him, arms crossed-- Thordrom, one of the soldiers in his battalion of other low-ranking servicemen. Staldar knows little about him except he likes to crack jokes, likes to start fights, and is generally a frustrating individual to be around. He goes back to his exercises, grunting.

 

“Hello, Thordrom.”

 

“The others, they may be afraid to say it to yer face, but I ain’t. None o’ us like the cut of yer jib. Ye never laugh wit’ us, never give us the time a day. What is it, huh? Too good for us? Think yer better n’ us?”

 

Staldar considers the dwarf’s words for a moment, stopping again. He looks to Thordrom.

 

“I am better than you,” he says, dispassionately. Thordrom’s face goes scarlet, and for a moment he looks furious, before his mouth twists into a sneer.

 

“... Ye think so, eh?”

  
  
“I perform my duties more efficiently and with no code infractions. I follow orders without question and do my job as intended. I am focused. I am disciplined. It is nothing personal, but yes. I am better than you,” Staldar deadpans. He watches as the dwarf’s face slowly grows more thunderous. “I’m sorry if that displeases you. Perhaps it’s best not to ask questions you don’t want the answer to.” Staldar stands, and starts to walk away when Thordrom calls out.

 

“Prove it! Prove that yer better! Fight me!”

 

Staldar gives a long glance back.

 

“What would that prove? It would be a waste of time.”

 

“Shaddup and square up, ye scaley cretin!”

 

Staldar lets out a long-suffering sigh, before entering a defensive stance.

 

“Very well, since you insist. I suppose sparring is fine, though I doubt that’s your intention. Would you like to define any terms for this fight?”

 

“No weapons. First blood. Let’s go.” And just like the burly dwarf charges at Staldar. Staldar moves out of his path easily. Thordrom has to catch himself, turn, and tries to throw a few jabs at Staldar’s middle. Staldar blocks every blow, neither advancing or retreating on the dwarf. “ _ Argh _ ! Fight back, will ye!”

 

“Very well.”

 

Staldar catches both of Thordrom’s wrists, performs a tidy leg sweep, and pins the dwarf to the ground. Thordrom grunts and snarls in Dwarven, flexing and thrashing in Staldar’s grip. “If you can break my hold, we may continue the fight. If not, this ceases. We both have better things to do than spill needless blood.”

 

“Fuck you! Ye think jus’ ‘cause yer bigger and-- and--- some kinda teachers’ pet or somethin’, goodie two shoes, ye think yer all that, toyin’ with me--,” Thordrom pants and blusters.

 

“You’re severely mistaken. I take no pleasure in this. In fact, I’ll take my leave of you. Goodbye, Thordrom.” Staldar removes himself from the dwarf, and once more attempts to walk away. Thordrom slowly stands, dusting himself off.

 

“Yer a real piece a work, Drachenhearth. One day, somebody’s gonna knock ye down a peg!”

 

Staldar does not stop, but replies just loud enough to be understood.

 

“When that day comes, I’m sure I will deserve it.”

* * *

 


	4. Offerings

* * *

**_“Offerings”_ **

* * *

 

  
  


Staldar makes a mistake he will never make again.

 

He, in a rare, unthinking moment, speaks out of turn, and oh, he pays for it.

 

For the crime of speaking unbidden, his privilege of speech is revoked altogether. No conventional gag could survive his strong jaws and sharp teeth, so instead they are forced to bind his mouth with sturdy cording, sealing it shut, the material digging painfully into his face in some places. His height meant he had been forced to his knees. He grinds his teeth at the sting of humiliation and shame, but does not let it show. They are useless feelings, feelings that could only get him in more trouble, so he swallows them down.

 

“There,” his S.O., an uncommonly burly elf, something-something Vandron, says with some pride, smiling cruelly. “Now you look the part of your reputation-- the tireless workhorse.” There’s a round of quiet laughter from the rest of his company, still standing in a line on either side of him, watching his punishment. Being made an example of. “I’m surprised and disappointed, Drachenhearth. Your track record is impressive, but I believe you forget yourself, your place here.” He murmurs something to a cadet further down the line, who salutes and darts off. “Start doing pushups. Don’t stop until I say,” he says, returning his attention to Staldar.

 

The dragonborn does as he is told, getting down into position, easily getting into a rhythm. Right away, Staldar can tell the makeshift muzzle does more than hinder his speech. It doesn’t take very long at all for him to start breathing harder and faster though his nose, unable to use his mouth to fill his lungs. He slows, realizing there’s no way he can keep his usual pace.

 

At some point during this, the other cadet had returned, handing something over to Vandron. Seeing Staldar slow, he steps close to the struggling dragonborn, boot heels clicking on the flagstones. Staldar can barely hear over his own labored breaths and the blood starting to rush to his head, but he feels the connection across his back, a sting so sharp and unexpected he lets out a muffled exclamation, faltering, dropping to an elbow, knees buckling.

 

“No, no stopping, no slowing down. Just like drills. Get in position. Up. Down. Up. Yes, like that. If you slow down, that’s a lash. If you stop, you get a lash.”

 

Staldar, shaking, complies. Vandron paces around him and, speaking up for the entire company.

 

“Do you know why I single you out when you slip, Drachenhearth? Do you know why it is that, at your slightest mistake, I am harder on you than the rest of your company for all their faults?” A pause, Staldar realizes he truly expects an answer. Staldar shakes his head in the negative. “Because not a single godsdamned other person in this unit is  _ worth the wasted effort! _ ” His volume increases until he’s practically roaring at the other cadets, now deathly quiet. “These  _ louts _ , these  _ wastrels _ , and  _ doltish layabouts _ know  _ fuckall _ about discipline, integrity,  _ honor _ ! When I teach, nothing sticks in their useless fucking heads! They’ll never amount to any importance, never become the heroes they imagine themselves to be! So why should I waste even a second on them?” Staldar can practically feel all the mirth leaving the company, now replaced by bitterness. He can feel all of their derision. “They’re unbroken stallions, over-confident and rebellious and absolutely fucking  _ useless!” _

 

It’s at this point where Staldar, unwillingly, loses his rhythm again, light-headed, muscles starting to burn from insufficient oxygen, chest heaving from the effort. Vandron is quick to notice, and Staldar feels another lick of pain across his back through his uniform. He grunts, and forces himself to push past the ache in his limbs and lungs, and now his back. Worse still, his eyes begin to water. Vandron continues on his tirade.

 

“You’re not like them, boy. You’re sharp. When I teach, you learn and understand. You obey. ‘Workhorse’ is quite apt for you. You came to me ready to work, already broken, which is why your outburst is so unexpected. It’s alright. No one is perfect all of the time. A broken horse can still buck, can’t he? Perhaps these jackasses have been a bad influence on you. You just need some reminding.”

 

Staldar’s arms give out, but another hit has him moving again. He expects another for being unable to keep the brutal cadence, no longer able to force himself past his limits, but it doesn’t come, to his relief. He finds himself feeling fearful, on the verge of hyperventilating, passing out, or both.

 

“Of all of these hedonistic fools, you at least seem to understand that this work means sacrifice. You don’t shy away from toil, or burden, or struggle, or adversity, Drachenhearth. You’ll bear any pain, carry any weight, do whatever it takes. But pain can cause doubt and resentment as well. Don’t worry. Your pain isn’t meaningless!” He pauses. “You may stop.”

 

Staldar collapses, trembling, entire body burning, inside and out, wheezing pitifully through his nose. His mouth starts to water, stomach roiling threateningly.

 

“Your pain is an offering. Not to the gods, not to the Praetor, not even to me. It is an offering to Kyla, to her and her people! Your devotion is not sanctified in prayer, but bloodshed! Sacrifice!  _ These _ alone are your sacrament! Kyla will know your pains, will know your devotion, and repay you in kind!” Vandron’s shadow passes over Staldar, and he crouches down to meet Staldar’s eyes. Staldar finally sees that the source of the stinging hits had been a riding crop. “But I’m preaching to the choir, aren’t I?” He smiles down at Staldar. Staldar raises a tremor-wracked hand and weakly gives him the  _ affirmative _ signal. Vandron barks out a laugh, rising. “You and you, drag his sorry carcass to the infirmary.”

 

Staldar feels two sets of hands on him, hauling him up by his underarms, and his stomach goes from rolling to cramping in an instant. He scrabbles against them, falling back down to all fours, pulling fruitlessly at the chord holding his mouth shut as the gagging starts. Vandron sighs.

 

“Cut it off of him before he chokes. Then get him to medical. Dismissed.” Most of the cadets disperse to go about their day, but a few linger, watching Staldar’s plight with mixed concern, intrigue, and pleasure.

 

A pair of hands manipulate Staldar’s head up, holding him still, while cold steel works at the cords. They aren’t quick enough, and Staldar coughs his mouth is suddenly full of bile, acidic and foul. A small amount manages to seep between his teeth, some forced out of his nose by sheer necessity.

 

“Aw hells, hurry up, hurry up!”

 

“Dammit, I’m trying, it’s not fuckin’ easy!”

 

Staldar grabs the hand holding the knife, and forces it to saw through the last of the cords, ignoring the prick and nick of the edge against his nose. His jaws,  _ finally _ , unlock, and he coughs and heaves and gasps painfully until his body has nothing left to eject.

 

“Eugh, fuckin’ gross. Who’s gonna clean that up, huh?”

 

“Get one of the shitty little mages to do it, they got cantrips for shit like this.”

 

“Heh, yeah. Alright, smartass, let’s get you to a cleric.” The hands are back at his shoulders, pulling him up for the second time now. His back throbs so much, heat radiating from the strikes, he wonders if he’s bleeding.

 

“I almost feel sorry for you, dragon boy. Almost,” one of the men grunts.

 

Staldar doesn’t have the energy to tell him that he doesn't care.

* * *

 

 


	5. Baptism by Fire

* * *

**_“Baptism by Fire”_ **

* * *

 

  
  


Staldar’s first assignment outside of the walls of Kyla, investigating the edge of the Revinae Wood with the rest of his section, does not go according to plan. Reports of minor suspicious activity and illegal hunt had summoned them there. A meager offense in the grand scheme of things.

 

So, unsuspecting, Staldar is surprised when an arrow hisses from between the pines and pierces right through chain and canvas, skewering his shoulder.

 

He roars in pain, falling to his knees.

 

“Take cover! They’re firing from the North!”

 

The rest happens all in a blur, but the poacher is slain quickly after that. Staldar simply leans against the trunk of a tree, vision swimming. Pain radiates, hot and horrible down his arm, his back. He feels blood welling, spilling in rivulets on either side of him. The foreign object piercing skin and muscle makes him feel sick, makes his arm limp and useless.

 

“Damn.  _ Damn _ . That’s no good, and they didn’t assign a healer to us. Will you be able to make it back into the city like that?” An elf Staldar can’t currently remember the name of hovers worriedly while the others deal with the poacher.

 

“Do you or the others have a kit? I can manage, but I need something to bind the wound.” The elf nods, passing over a small medical kit.

 

Staldar breathes hard for a moment, sucking in sharp breaths, stealing himself for what he must do. He’s lucky that the arrow was able to pass cleanly through him, point sticking out of his back. He reaches his good arm across his front and grasps the protruding wood.

 

“By the Gods, you’re not going to--!”

 

_ Snap. _

 

He roars in pain again, pounding his fist which holds the arrow head against the tree trunk behind him. He sags, panting, while the elf just stares, horrified. The other two come running through the brush at the scream.

 

“If you pull that out, you’ll bleed even more. You’ve lost quite a bit already. Just wait until--”

 

“I won’t bleed out. Help me take this glove off, I need to bite down for this. Quickly, please.”

 

The elf helps Staldar pull the leather glove off, slightly slicked with blood, and Staldar quickly wedges it into his own mouth, ignoring the metallic taste, breathing loudly through his nose. He takes the fletchings in hand, holds for just a moment, exhaling slowly, then  _ pulling _ . Another scream, this time long, hoarse, and muffled. He bites right through the leather, jaw clenching hard as the shaft ever so slowly tracks back through the hole it had burrowed, blood welling in the space it leaves behind. Finally the arrow is freed and he slumps back, hanging desperately onto consciousness. The three others watch, dumbfounded.

 

Staldar takes a moment to catch his breath, but can’t take as long as he’d like, blood blooming across his tabard like a macabre sort of flower He takes a roll of gauze from the medical kit, bites off a few lengths and begins packing the front of the wound.

 

“I’ll need someone else to press my back,” Staldar grunts, proffering the bandage roll.

 

“Of course,” a human (whose name also escapes Staldar in that moment) says, taking the bandage. He presses the folded bundle into the wound, staunching the flow of blood at least in part. The elf takes the initiative to then wrap his shoulder as best he can over the chainmail.

 

“It would be better if we could bind it under the armor but this should do, at least until we make it back into the city. Can you stand?”

 

“Yes, if you will lend me a hand.”

 

It takes the combined effort of the human and elf to get Staldar upright, but once he is up he refuses further assistance. The other three pass looks between each other, eyebrows raised.

 

“That could easily have felled a lesser man, you know.”

 

“It’s a good thing I’m no lesser man, then.”

 

Together they trudge back towards the metropolis in relative silence.

* * *

 


	6. Crossing Paths

* * *

**_“Crossing Paths”_ **

* * *

 

  
  


Staldar is twenty-one when he is promoted to a new battalion. And, for the first time in many years, he encounters another dragonborn.

 

He is  _ so _ intensely curious about this individual, more so than he’s ever been about anyone. But he maintains his distance, as he does with everyone. But the green dragonborn, Yorsashi, Staldar soon learns, is not off put by Staldar’s cold disposition like he expects him to be. The entire battalion is much more professional and welcoming than what Staldar is used to, but Yorsashi in particular throws him for a loop.

 

He isn’t intrusive or prodding or overfamiliar. But he gravitates. When they fall in, they fall in side by side. When they train or spar, Yorsashi always offers to spot or pair off with Staldar. He’s never over eager, never forceful, but always subtly, wordlessly asking to enter his space. And, thus far, Staldar can’t find any reason to push him away.

 

After a little time, they actually say more than a few polite words to one another. It starts with idle chatter, easy back and forths that hold no weight. Staldar humors this despite his distaste for chit-chat, finding Yorsashi endlessly interesting. For one, he’s incredibly sharp, well-spoken, and tactfully blunt at times. Staldar can appreciate this. Yorsashi is full of surprises.

 

Secondly, he makes Staldar laugh.

 

Yorsashi is witty. Sometimes, his jokes go over Staldar’s head, not even realizing what he’s said is a quip. And then he catches it, and he can’t help it, the mask breaks, and Staldar  _ laughs _ . Not just a snort, not just a chuckle, but a full-bodied, breathless sort of laugh. And Yorsashi laughs with him and has a pleased look in his eyes.

 

They are nearly always placed on assignment together. And he and Yorsashi work like a well-oiled machine. But even machines can break down.

 

Staldar knows not to underestimate Yorsashi. He is as fierce as he is clever, and a skilled marksman. Regardless, Yorsashi cannot absorb hits like Staldar can. And as far as Staldar is concerned, it’s his job to make sure he never has to. So when Yorsashi is sitting in the recovery room of the barracks’ infirmary, guilt gnaws at Staldar. Yorsashi looks up from reading, hearing Staldar’s approach, and smiles brightly at him. Staldar wishes Yorsashi wouldn’t look on him with such warm eyes sometimes.

 

“Oh, thank the Gods, I was growing rather bored. I wish they’d just give me clearance to leave already. I can handle a few bruises.”

 

“Bruised ribs are a little more serious than than a bruised knee or arm, Yorsashi.”

 

“You sound just like all these clerics. I suppose I can always count on you for a lecture,” he sighs with a dismissive wave of his hand, a teasing glint in his eyes. But his expression goes softer, his voice a little somber. He doesn’t meet Staldar’s eye. He fiddles with the corner of the page he’d been reading. “They told me what you did, that I might not be here if you hadn’t… That was very brave of you. Thank you.” Yorsashi looks up again, and Staldar’s heart seizes in his chest.

 

“It’s my fault you were injured in the first place. I broke formation. I put you in harm’s way,” Staldar intones softly, looking away. “I came to apologize for that. My mistake nearly cost you your life.”

 

Staldar hears Yorsashi close his book.

 

“You did what you had to do, given the circumstances. None of that was your fault.”   
  
“Yorsashi, there’s no excuse for it. I should have maintained control over the situation, I--”

 

“Staldar, were you the one that attacked me?”

 

“I could have prevented it.”

 

Yorsashi makes a frustrated sound and suddenly he stands, a hand holding his middle, and Staldar starts to protest, moving to stop him, but then Yorsashi is leaning into him, arms snaking around to hold him, head resting against Staldar’s chest.

 

As Staldar’s hands hover over the smaller dragonborn, he hopes Yorsashi can’t hear the way his heart races at the touch, an unidentifiable emotion washing over him. No one had ever embraced him in such a way.

 

“You stubborn fool,” Yorsashi grumbles. “We all  _ could _ have done things differently. I could have paid closer attention. I could have been more prepared. Either way, none of that matters. I’m simply thankful that, in the end, you were there, Staldar.” He squeezes a little tighter. Staldar’s hands slowly come to rest on Yorsashi’s shoulder blades in a very light touch, barely pressing. Yorsashi is sun-warmed. He clears his throat.

 

“There’s still no need to thank me. It was the least that I could do.”

 

“Then there’s nothing to forgive, either. So, we’re even,” Yorsashi pulls back, apparently assuaged. Staldar watches one hand drift back up to his ribcage, sees that his posture is stiff. Staldar, hands still on Yorsashi’s shoulders, gently guides Yorsashi back into his seat.

 

“How are you feeling? I doubt you’re supposed to be jumping up and putting pressure on your bruises.” Yorsashi makes an unhappy face, carefully massaging his tender torso.

 

“It’s certainly not comfortable, but nothing I can’t handle. And I’m sorry for that, I know you prefer your space. I just didn’t know how else to get you to stop being so… dense.” Mischief flickers behind his eyes. Staldar snorts.

 

“Ah, well, then I guess I’ll just take my leave, since I’m sure you’d rather not keep such dense company,” Staldar goads, turning as if to leave.

 

“No, please, I’ll at least take dense company over dull company. Come, let me tell you about what I’ve been reading, you would find it very interesting!”

 

So Staldar takes a seat and listens as Yorsashi tells him about the book, an account of some era of Kylan history. The history is genuinely interesting, and Yorsashi is right that Staldar would think so, but that doesn’t compare to the feeling of relief that he hasn’t lost the only person who could see past his cold exterior.

 

The five years they spend together are Staldar’s fondest.

 

But duty calls, and their paths diverge. At least, for a time.

* * *

 


	7. Mythos

* * *

**_“Mythos”_ **

* * *

 

  
  


As the sun is setting and the two moons and  stars just begin to appear in the sky, Yorsashi and Staldar begin preparing a campfire, awaiting the return of the reconnaissance party, due to return within a few hours of sun down. Advantageous weather means there is plenty of dry wood, no strong winds to fight against, and even the evening chill does not bite, especially once the fire is well stoked and fed.

 

“We’re quite lucky that the conditions are so favorable. You remember how rainy and miserable our last few missions were,” Yorsashi comments passively, placing a final limb into the flames. Staldar looks up from where he’s pulling a dark iron pot from their provisions.

 

“Luck, hm? The weather is usually like this about this time of year, once the rain and cold pass.”

 

“I suppose. But sometimes the cold and rain never seems to end. Perhaps the gods took pity on us, seeing us cold and drenched, and blessed us with a reprieve.” Yorsashi sits back on his haunches, pleased with the fire.

 

“Mm. I could not say, Yorsashi.” Staldar brings the large pot over, along with a set of metal poles and a length of small chains, with a little hook on the end. Yorsashi hops up to assist Staldar.

 

“Do you not believe in them, Staldar? Gods?”

 

“It’s… not that I disbelieve. But I don’t know if I can trust something I can’t observe for myself. I can observe the turning of the seasons. I can observe the phases of the moons,” Staldar replies, voice slow and neutral. Yorsashi nods in understanding. Then a strange expression crosses his face.

 

“I hope I do not annoy you with my prattle of Bahamut and such, then,” Yorsashi murmurs, not really meeting Staldar’s eyes. Staldar hangs the heavy pot from the chain, now suspended over the fire by the metal poles.

 

“On the contrary, I find your devotion… fascinating.” Staldar cringes at his wording and backpedals. “Forgive me, that sounds patronising, I hadn’t meant--”

 

“No, no, you did not offend. I think I understand.”

 

“A-ah, good. Let me rephrase that, I only meant… when you speak on such things, you spark my curiosity.” Staldar, having filled the pot with water to boil, takes a seat on a log they had drug over from an outcrop of nearby trees, resting his elbows on his knees. Yorsashi alights on the other end, leaning back, stretching his legs out towards the fire.

 

“Would you like to hear of Bahamut? Not to sway you, but if you’re curious, they are lovely stories either way.”

 

“We have some time yet before the others should be returning. You have my attention.”

 

Yorsashi smiles and wastes no time launching into the history of Bahamut, Staldar listening intently as he cooks. From his mysterious origins and accruing of followers, stories of his benevolence and compassion towards all, particularly the meek and needful, Bahamut is clearly revered by Yorsashi. Yorsashi speaks lovingly of the platinum dragon god who sometimes walks the earth as an old, vagrant human, accompanied by his loyal wyrms disguised as canaries. He gesticulates and paints beautiful pictures of a shining castle of mithral and gems, gleaming and refracting Celestial light. He speaks of Bahamut’s perpetual rival, Tiamat, and her terrible beauty, strength, and capacity for evil. Their fierce conflicts, Bahamut’s constant undoing of Tiamat’s troublesome work, the endless struggle, Staldar finds this particularly interesting. Then, Yorsashi says something that makes something in the back of Staldar's mind ring, like distant temple bells.

 

“Despite it all, Bahamut and Tiamat somehow parented twin dragons, one white, one silver, named--”

 

“Saphikut and Daphiket,” Staldar hears himself say.

 

“Oh, you know of them, then?”

 

“... In a way. Someone must have told me once, but it's…” Staldar struggles to recall who it could have been, when he had heard this, but the memories shift and blur and dance just out of reach.

 

“Well, I'll stop there. I believe I see the reconnaissance squad making their way back, anyways,” Yorsashi says, standing and stretching.

 

“Um, thank you. You were right.”

 

“Right? About?”

 

“They were wonderful stories. You tell them well.”

 

Yorsashi makes a happy, shy expression at this.

 

“You're very welcome. Thank you for listening.”

 

“Of course.”

 

As the rest of their little fleet reunites to break bread and relay their findings, Staldar finds himself suddenly very preoccupied by thoughts of white and silver dragons, and what made them so familiar.

* * *

 


	8. Killing Isn't the Hard Part

* * *

**_“Killing Isn’t the Hard Part”_ **

* * *

 

  
  


The scuffle turns deadly. Staldar isn’t sure when the tides begin to turn precisely, but the realization is sharp. He no longer has the upper hand over his opponent and his control over the battle is slipping. He is in real danger.

 

The realization causes a moment of panic, something he’s not used to, and the burly man he’s facing off against sees this, and uses it. With a swift movement, he manages to disarm Staldar, the greatsword he’d been carrying skittering away from him with a clatter. Yorsashi, caught in his own conflict cries out when he sees this, but is too occupied to assist. The entire squad is too deep in various states of battle to lend aid.

 

Staldar is given no chance to retreat, simply dodging hefty blows from a nasty looking mace, looking desperately for holes in his opponents defenses, anything, some misstep, some weak point. He ends up taking a hit right to the chest, falling back, winded by the blunt force.

 

The man is upon him in an instant, and the mace is across Staldar’s throat, pressing, the entire weight of the man bearing down. He’s strong, but not strong enough to dislodge him, he has no leverage, hands frantically searching for purchase, pushing the mace, pushing the shoulders of the man, who grins down at him cruelly, face inches from his own, as he begins to gasp, windpipe slowly being crushed.

 

“S’matter, big fella? Cat got yer tongue?” The man apparently finds this hilarious and laughs.

 

Spots and darkness start to obscure Staldar’s vision, but the gibe makes a thought flit across his mind. It’s a horrible thought, but he’s desperate, on the cusp of unconsciousness, then surely, death.

 

He reaches up, and in a kind of perverse embrace, he pulls the man to him, as close as he can with all his strength. The man struggles, confused, but he’s close enough, just close enough.

 

Staldar, with a heave and a growl, open his jaw wide and snaps it shut over the man’s exposed throat. Without even that much force, his sharp teeth pierce him, entering with little sickening  _ pop _ s, and the man gives a startled shout, part scream, part gurgle. He of course lets go of the mace, attempting to pull out of Staldar’s jaws, priorities shifting. Blood immediately begins to well up and Staldar can feel it on his gums, his tongue, and it’s hot, disgusting, metallic, can practically taste the adrenaline in his blood, but he ignores it. He clenches his jaw harder, and he digs his claws in. Sinew rips, the man thrashes (or rather, attempts to), more blood gushes,  _ pours _ even, and Staldar is sure his teeth must of severed his carotid artery or jugular or both, and he tries not to gag as it fills his mouth, the sheer volume of it all, he wishes he weren’t on his back for this,  _ Gods, don’t swallow, don’t swallow, that’s _ \--

 

But the man is still  _ alive _ , how is he  _ alive _ , so Staldar bites with all the force he can possibly muster, and his jaw is nearly  _ shut _ , teeth only a few short inches from interlocking, but he hits bone, can feel it. Staldar jerks his head, now firmly attached to this man like a predator with prey in its grasp, and he can hear the  _ snap  _ in his  _ head _ , can hear the man’s spine break in a grotesquely intimate way, and finally,  _ finally _ , he’s limp, life extinguished.

 

Staldar opens his jaw, and it’s strangely not that easy to pull all teeth out of skin and muscle, and blood pours out of his mouth, out of the mangled wound, Gods, just blood everywhere, down his face, neck, chest. He pushes the dead weight off of him, rolls over and fights with his own body, retching once, then no more, blood and saliva dripping from his maw. He spits and spits, but he can’t do this now, can’t be concerned with this in the moment, and scrabbles across the ground to where his sword fell.

 

 

Sword retrieved, he stands, shakily, panting, and starts to move to assist Yorsashi, but right as he steps forward, they subdue the last combatant, cuffing them. As Staldar lowers his sword, Yorsashi looks back and gasps.

 

“By the Gods! You’re bleeding--”

 

“I’m not. It’s his,” and Staldar says, voice hoarse, gesturing vaguely back to the large man’s body, a pool of blood now formed, radiating from his shredded throat. Yorsashi looks between Staldar and the corpse for a moment before he steps over to the body, skirting all the mess. With a gentle claw, he turns the man’s head to get a better look at the wound. The skin is mottled, purple blooming across any skin that isn’t soaked in blood, which has already begun to coagulate in places. Yorsashi shakes his head, eyes wide.

 

“ _ Bahamut wept _ , Staldar--!” He looks back up at the white dragonborn.

 

Staldar can’t stop the twinge of shame that must flit across his face. Never had he been forced to such barbarics, never had he done something so… animalistic. Feral. Even in battle, he takes pride in his cold precision, his ability to kill with grace, efficiency, dignity, mercifully swift. His mistakes today had forced his hand, and while he couldn’t be sorry for keeping his life, he can’t shake the disgust, visceral, the regret of not performing to his own standards, the regret of  _ squeezing _ the life out of someone like a beast. He schools his face into a placid, passionless mask, but Yorsashi knows him too well. “Are you… alright?”

 

“I’m alive and uninjured, for the most part. I did what had to be done.” Staldar begins to move to rejoin the rest of their unit, but Yorsashi rushes over.

 

“Wait, just a moment, here,” He digs in a side pouch, producing a handkerchief. “Let me, ah, clean some of this off. I’m sure it’s rather… unpleasant.” He reaches up and begins wiping away blood from Staldar’s muzzle. Some has already begun to dry and flake and is harder to scrub away. Staldar just stands still, compliant.

 

“Our role is not a pleasant one. But we do what we do because we must.”

 

Yorsashi doesn’t say anything to this at first, clutching the ruined cloth, a complex emotion crossing his face before he shakes his head with a small smile.

 

“Pragmatic as ever, Drachenhearth. That’s the best I can manage with just a handkerchief, but Talren might have something.” Yorsashi turns to regroup with the elves of their group.

 

Staldar follows, sheathing his pristine sword.

* * *

 


	9. Solstice Celebration

* * *

**_“Solstice Celebration”_ **

* * *

 

  
  


Being an S.O. comes with some perks. He’s busy, that much doesn't change, but he also has newfound time to devote to self improvement. He begins to study war magic, and it eats up all of his free time. It’s tedious, a cycle of study, then practice, then failure, then study again, but it’s worth it to suddenly be even a little in control of the elements. He feels some sense of pride and accomplishment, when he casts his first chromatic orb.

 

He’s not as excited by the other “perks” of his position.

 

One of these being the occasional invitation to extravagant parties.

 

He made no effort to attend these, knowing they would hold no interest for him. He knew them to be excuses to indulge in fine food and drink, to brag and boast over trifles. Parties meant small talk and gossip and even heated, drunken debate, like games of social parley. No, he’s much happier to simply make excuses to decline-- at least then he is given sympathy and respect for working hard.

 

It’s much harder to get out of attending the larger soirees, and nearly impossible to avoid the annual Winter Solstice Military Ball. He tries, anyways.

 

“Come, Staldar, don’t tell me you intend to spend the Solstice all alone! Work will still be there when the Solstice is over!” A scruffy, middle-aged human S.O., a jovial man by the name of Adok, claps him on the back, a little too loud for the quiet little Military Library and Records building.

 

“Yes, don’t let some silly forms stop you from having fun! If anything, this is the one night a year where you simply  _ must _ have a good time; to do otherwise is practically criminal,” a delicate little elven cleric, Miareth, asserts more gently, laughing like the tinkling of a bell. “Then they’d have to arrest you!” Staldar snorts at her teasing.

 

“And the court would sentence me to a life of attending balls,” Staldar huffs, pulling a book from the shelf, a tome detailing the magic of binding a weapon to oneself. He tucks it under his arm, strolling down the aisle.

 

“That’s a pretty light sentence if I ever heard one,” Adok laughs. “Surely there’s nothing so pressing that you’ll miss out on  _ Solstice eve _ ! Why, I even hear the Praetor will be in attendance.”

 

“Don’t go spreading rumors like that, Adok! You know she’s in the middle of making trade deals, so I wouldn’t be building up people’s hopes,” Miareth admonishes, clicking her tongue.

 

“I’m not! It’s not just any old rumor, I heard it on good word, I swear!” He holds his hands up in defense, crossing a finger over his heart. “I’m only saying, it sure would be a shame not to come and make a good impression with Praetor Amakiir. Staldar, you’re one of Kyla’s best, if anyone should be there, it should be you.”

 

Staldar sighs, tapping a frustrated claw against the spine of another book.

 

“... I’ll see what I can do.”

 

He gives in, reluctantly donning his dress uniform on the eve of Winter Solstice, scales freshly polished, claws trimmed and filed. One last look in the mirror. Everything in its place. A sigh. Though he doesn’t need it, he takes the long formal coat provided to him, pulls it on, and leaves.

 

The walk there is pleasant, at least. The moons are high and clear in the sky, shining brightly, and the chill air is refreshing. His trepidation fades as he walks under the stars and street lamps, but it immediately spikes again, chest constricting as he sees the beginnings of a crowd at the entrance of the dance hall.

 

Everyone looks radiant, wearing their very best, a mix of well-decorated and pressed uniforms, tailored suits and robes, and flowing gowns and fur coats, a fairly even mix of nobles and high-ranking guard present. Staldar feels drab, by comparison, but with any luck, that would be to his advantage. He garnered unwanted looks simply from being a tall, pale dragonborn. He hardly wanted to be a  _ flashy _ , tall, pale dragonborn.

 

“Oh, Staldar, you made it!” Miareth’s high, melodic voice cuts through the babble and laughter of the crowd as he approaches. It takes him a moment to recognize her, so used to only seeing her in a medical frock, hair tied back into a tight bun. Hair curled and pinned, wearing a tastefully beaded, high-necked dress, she looks even more fae-like than usual. She beams, nose and cheeks rosy from the night air. “Adok and I were taking bets on whether or not you’d come,” she giggles. “I was so sure you wouldn’t show, but I’m so glad you’ve proven me wrong! Adok will be glad to see you as well!” She begins to tug him along, and he lets himself be guided.

 

“You look lovely tonight, Miareth,” he says, and he means it. She quickly does a little spin for him, holding her skirt primly.

 

“It’s a change of pace, isn’t it? You look dapper as well, this uniform suits you so well. Now, lets find Adok, he had some folks he wanted you to meet!”

 

They show their invitations at the door, Staldar relinquishes his overcoat to the coat check, and Miareth continues to lead Staldar into the main hall. Already, the beautiful building is gilded with wreaths, gold and red baubles and ribbon framing Kylan banners that hang from the vaulted ceiling. Beautiful stained glass lanterns hang, creating an atmospheric, twinkling glow, splashes of color painting the filigree of the walls.

 

And then the hall opens up into ballroom, music and chatter becoming louder, and Staldar feels very small for the first time in a long time.

 

The largest, most delicate chandelier he has ever seen hangs in the center of the enormous, domed ceiling, which is adorned with paintings, intricate and fine. The paintings depict the heavens, and some key moments from Kylan history-- mainly, Kyla’s rebirth and ensuing renaissance. The paintings are framed by ornate moulding, carved into dark wood. Little skylights, latticed panes of glass, allow the people below to enjoy the night’s clear sky without weathering the cold. Carved stone pillars hold up the heavenly visage. The floor is freshly polished, the marble gleaming, reflecting everything above it. If the people made him feel out of place, the ballroom itself felt like an entirely other world.

 

Miareth must feel him tense, resisting her pull for a moment. She looks back, but his face reveals nothing.

 

“Something wrong? Did you forget something in your coat?”

 

_ ‘I don’t belong here.’ _

 

“No, forgive me, I thought perhaps I had, but it’s fine.” He forces himself to relax, head high, shoulders back, allowing the little elf to lead the way.

 

They weave between party-goers, milling about, often clustered together to hear some tale or another. Staldar sees a few familiar faces, but the vast majority is a sea of regal strangers, mostly elves, some humans. Staldar thinks he sees a handful of dwarves and a halfling. Some half-elves and humans carry large trays of drinks and delicacies on their shoulders for people to take as they pass. As expected, Staldar feels and sees some of the odd looks he gets as he skirts around other guests, attempting to follow Miareth, and the sinking feeling in his stomach grows.

 

Miareth hesitates when confronted with a larger crowd, taking up the middle of the floor, looking about for a way around.

 

“Pardon us--!” Her little voice barely rises above the din of voices and music, no one paying her any mind. Staldar suppresses a growl of irritation, instead clearing his throat loudly. The guests nearest to them look up and startle, going quiet. Staldar keeps his glowering to a minimum. He places a large hand on Miareth’s shoulder. She glances up at him, surprised.

 

“The lady is trying to pass by.”

 

The crowd hurriedly parts with muttered apologies and wary smiles, some whispering amongst themselves, side-eyeing Staldar. He steels himself against the prickle of discomfort, shuffling through the divide in the crowd, but overhears some of the less subtle murmurs.

 

“So tall…”

“Why, have you ever seen a  _ white _ dragonborn?”

“Do you recognize him?”

“ _ He’s _ a Senior Officer?”

“... A bit scary, don’t you think…?”

 

“Thank you, Staldar,” Miareth chirps to him, patting his hand. He blinks, pulled from his unintentional eavesdropping, nodding.

 

“Of course.”

 

“Oh, oh, I see Adok, finally!” She scurries a head, and Staldar sees the man, holding a half-drunk glass of some dark red liquor. He’s already looking to be on his way to drunkenness, face growing ruddy, but his eyes are bright with mischief as he elbows a fellow S.O. in the side with a guffaw. “Adok, look who came!” Adok turns, hearing his name, and his smile grows, breaking from his little posse to clap Staldar on the back heartily.

 

“I knew you’d come, good lad, good lad! Mia, you owe me a night at the tavern, on you!”

 

“Yes, yes, we’ll make a thing of it, invite everyone along, but Adok, you cad, the night is young and you’re already well into your cups! Where is Lorna?”

 

“Ah, she’s with some of the other ladies of the Council, talking about some new scandal.”   
  
“ _ You _ ’ _ re _ going to be some scandal if you don’t pace yourself. She hates when you get too drunk.” Adok doesn’t put up much fuss as Miareth pries the drink from his hand and sets it on a passing empty tray to be whisked away.

 

“Oh, nonsense, by the end of the evening, she’ll have had her fill of mulled wine as well, and we’ll both sleep like the dead tonight. That, or make another little Adok Junior,” Adok’s tone goes low and teasing, waggling his eyebrows. Miareth giggles and pushes him away, waving him off.

 

“Gods, you can be such a scoundrel! Maybe having Staldar around for once will keep you in check, hm? He’s a good influence. I need to find a friend from the Academy, but I’ll be around!”

 

“Of course, of course, I’ll behave. I need to show Staldar around, lots of folks to meet!” Adok gives Staldar another hard thump on the back (though he hardly reacts), Miareth parting with a little wave. “Come, let me introduce you to some people, they’ll love you! Oh, wait-- drinks--!”

 

“Ah, no thank you, I don’t imbi--,” Staldar starts to protest but Adok spots a tray of wine glasses, and plucks two from the bunch, passing one to Staldar, who begrudgingly accepts it. He follows Adok back into the little circle of people he’d been talking to before their arrival.

 

“Friends, let me have the pleasure of introducing you to one of our newest, most promising S.O.s, Staldar Drachenhearth!” Despite Adok’s enthusiasm, the group can’t hide their dubious looks quickly enough for propriety to kick in, but they quickly recover and one by one they hold their hands out to shake, introducing themselves in return.

 

Staldar tries to remember all their names, but it’s a losing battle.

 

“Drachenhearth… That name is familiar to me. You’re not the one who caused quite the scene, the one who busted all those rowdy cadets for sneaking liquor into the garrison, are you?” One of the elves, a Marshall, speaks up once they’re all introduced.   
  
“Ohh, yes, I heard about that. He had all the cadets line up in the yard with their ill-gotten goods and made them to drink it all, all at once. Once they could drink no more, sicking up all over the yard, he smashed the bottles to bits and bade them to clean up entire mess!”

 

Staldar doesn’t know how to respond. He doesn’t exactly look back on the incident with pride, though it had been an effective deterrent to excessive drinking and smuggling of alcohol into his barracks. Cadets across all battalions had become wary of him, not daring to cross him.

 

“I don’t take pleasure in doling out such discipline, but they were aware of the rules and the standards I expect them to meet. Alcohol is expressly forbidden. I won’t tolerate deliberate insubordination,” he states with little inflection. Some eyebrows raise.

 

“I can’t believe they chanced it in the first place. You have, ah, quite the imposing figure.”

 

“Quite! In our line of work, it doesn’t hurt to be a little intimidating, and I don’t mean this as a slight, but you have that in spades, Mr. Drachenhearth,” another laughs. “ _ I  _ wouldn’t want to get on your bad side!” There’s a round of laughter, Adok clapping his back again, but Staldar doesn’t see the humor in his statement. At least no one accuses him of lacking a sense of humor, not even seeming to notice his silence.

 

“Staldar can be a terror if he has a mind to be, that’s for sure, but he’s sharp as a tack, and he gets results. I swear, in all my years, I’ve never seen a band of cadets perform so admirably as his, and so consistently! It normally takes years for a newer S.O. to achieve this level of collective performance,” Adok boasts.

 

“Please don’t exaggerate on my behalf, Adok,” Staldar reprimands. “You give me far too much credit.”

 

“Oh, nonsense, lad! You’re far too humble. Tell them how, in just a year, with no prior arcane knowledge, you’ve taught yourself all manner of combat magic! Show them how you can summon your sword right into your hand!” Adok’s excitement grows, and the circle ‘ooh’s and hums in interest. Staldar blinks, surprised, before shaking his head.

 

“Adok, this is a ballroom, not a training ground. It would be uncouth to summon a blade here, in mixed company. And it only works the one way-- once it’s summoned, I can’t simply send it back. It’s not a parlour trick.” His tone brooks no argument, Adok taking a sip of wine to mask his disappointment.

 

“A raincheck, then. My curiosity is piqued. It’s not often you see a Soldier who is both a capable caster  _ and _ swordsman,” one of the Marshalls suggests, cueing some murmured agreement.

 

“Ah… Perhaps,” Staldar mumbles back, not quite sure how to feel. A part of him is tempted to quaff the drink in his hand simply to have an excuse not to speak anymore, but he’s relieved to hear Adok chime in.

 

“I know your schedule, lad, why don’t I make the arrangements when you’ve got a bit more time on your plate, hm? Why, we had to about beg the poor man to come out tonight and forget about work for a few hours.”

 

“That just means he has a good work ethic, unlike you, Adok!” Another round of laughter, Adok included. Staldar is relieved when the conversation turns away from him, then. He contentedly tries to follow the flow of conversation, but finds himself tuning it all out, disinterested. He finds himself listening more and more to the music, a string quintet playing a cheerful piece, likely a holiday favorite. More surprising, he finds he quite likes it. It’s not often he gets to simply… enjoy music. At least, not the bawdy ditties trainees seemed to enjoy baying at odd hours.

 

“Well, I almost didn’t believe my eyes! Staldar Drachenhearth!”

 

A firm hand on his shoulder pulls him from reverie, urging him to turn.

 

His heart seizes in his chest. If it shows, it only shows for a fraction of a second, before he regains control over his face.

 

“Senior Officer Vandron, sir.” Instinctively standing at attention (though this is difficult, with a drink in hand), fist over his chest in salute, he suddenly feels hot and cold all over, uncomfortable in his own skin. But really, he hadn’t felt very well the entire day. The beginnings of a headache pulses behind his eyes. Vandron smiles at him, motioning for him to relax. He looks exactly as he always had, unchanging in the way all elves are.

 

“Now, now, none of that. I’m not anyone’s S.O., not anymore. And you’re a Senior Officer yourself now, it seems!” His grin sets Staldar’s teeth on edge, but he eases into a more natural stance, looking to Vandron’s shoulder to see that he had been promoted.

 

“You’re a General now. Congratulations.” He hopes it doesn’t sound as hollow as it feels.

 

“Yes, we’ve each made great strides in our careers since we parted ways. I’m not surprised. I knew you’d make something of yourself.”

 

“Oh, General Vandron, happy Solstice! How do you know each other?” Adok interjects, pulling away from the conversation happening behind them.

 

“I commanded his first battalion!” Vandron’s voice is entirely too fond, too warm, compared to the memories Staldar has of him. “Ten years ago now, I believe. You were… seventeen? Eighteen?”

 

“Sixteen, sir,” Staldar says tersely.

 

“No need to stand on such ceremony anymore, though I know from experience old habits die hard,” Vandron laughs, then shakes his head in wonder. “Only sixteen years old. You’ve filled out a bit, maybe even grown an inch. You were tall, even then.” He gives Staldar’s shoulder a squeeze before letting go. He suppresses the urge to roll his shoulder, shake out the sensation left behind.

 

“You’re only twenty-six?” Adok looks surprised.

 

“Twenty-seven, now.”

 

“So young…! I was under the impression you were at  _ least _ in your mid-thirties,” Adok confesses, scratching his salt-and-pepper with a look of consternation. “All this time I’ve been calling ya ‘lad’ and ‘son,’ I thought I’d had only about ten years on you, but twenty-- I thought I was being cheeky, not apt.” He tries to laugh, but it’s half-hearted.

 

“If it makes you feel any better, it’s not a strange misconception to have. Dragonborn life spans are shorter even than that of humans, and we reach maturity rather quickly.”

 

Adok sobers somewhat, paling.

 

“Even shorter…?”

 

“Yes. There is a small chance you may outlive me,” Staldar continues, unconcerned. Adok blinks a few times, frowns, then gulps the last of his wine in one long drink. Vandron suddenly laughs, or guffaws, rather, nearly to the point of wiping tears from his eyes. Adok gives him a wary look, still disgruntled, and Staldar watches with confusion, unsure what was humorous.

 

“Drachenhearth, you are blunt to a fault! You’ve always preferred a hard truth to a sweet lie, haven’t you? Even on a day where everyone else would all rather forget the morbidity and bleakness of the world,” Vandron sighs, regaining his composure. “That’s something I like about you.”

 

Vandron’s approval does not feel like the compliment Staldar is sure he meant it as, only adding to his unease, and looking to Adok, he feels worse.

 

“Forgive me. It was not my intention to speak of potentially… upsetting matters.” Staldar says it quietly, mostly to Adok, who stands up a little straighter, waving him off with a feeble smile.

 

“No, no, don’t give it another thought! Just caught me by surprise is all.” He pats Staldar on the arm. “I think I’m going to adjourn to one of the smoking rooms, Lorna gifted me a tin of quality greygrass, and I favor a pipe at the moment.”

 

“Do you and Lorna intend to stay and listen to the Praetor speak later? I hear she will be announcing some good news!” Vandron asks cheerfully, hailing a passing servant, choosing a champagne glass from their tray. Adok places his own empty glass on a little tablet off to one side, covered in empty glasses.

 

“Of course! We’d be reluctant to miss it!”

 

“And you, Staldar?”

 

“Ah… yes, likewise.”

 

“Wonderful! Then I should be able to bid goodnight to everyone before parting ways! I’ll speak with you both later,” Vandron replies, nodding to each of them. He starts to brush past Staldar, but pauses, leaning  up slightly to whisper at him.

 

“You’ve earned this, you know. Do try and enjoy it, hm? Drink! Be merry!”

 

Staldar swallows, unable to meet his eye, trying not to break the stem of the glass in his hand.  _ ‘They’re not orders. They’re not orders.’ _

 

“Yes, sir,” he whispers back. Vandron just smiles and walks on.

 

He feels very short of breath.

 

“Are you alright, lad?” Adok’s voice cuts through his panic, and he collects himself, at least a little. He still feels ill, jumpy, and he already very desperately wants to leave, call it a night, but he’d already said he would stay.

 

“I’m fine. If you could point me to the… lavatory, however…”

 

“Oh, yes, they’re just off of the hall to the west. Are you sure you’re fine? I didn’t think it was possible to see you any paler, but you blanched a bit just then. Do you need me to find Mia?”

 

“No, no, I’m alright, I only need to visit the washroom and maybe a moment of fresh air,” Staldar reassures. “Go, have your pipe. I’ll be around.” And before Adok can say anything else, Staldar begins weaving his way through the crowd once more, making his way to the west hall. Along the way, he plants his still-full glass on one of the scattered little tables, glad to be rid of it.

 

As the prattle and music becomes distant, Staldar feels the knot in his chest loosen, but his headache still lingers, growing harder to ignore.  _ ‘... Maybe I  _ should _ find Miareth.’ _ First, he does need to relieve himself.

 

He finds the washrooms easily, somehow surprised and not at all surprised by their decadence. Locking himself into one, he realizes he’s never been in a restroom quite so modern. It feels wrong to use the shining white porcelain basin for such sordid things, as artfully crafted as it looks, almost a work of art in its own right. The gleaming, curving faucet that could produce water ranging from frigid to scalding, embedded in a countertop of some exotic polished stone is a far-cry from the unreliable showerheads and spigots he’d grown accustomed to, though S.O. privileges had provided him access to a markedly better wash facility. Hand carved wood frames everything, dark and rich. Staldar feels hyper-aware of his claws on the tile, glad to have had the forethought of blunting them in advance.

 

Looking in the mirror, Staldar sees that Adok had been right; even for his standards, he looks a little whey-faced. He splashes his face with water, leaning on the countertop for a moment to breathe and clear his head, when a knock at the door makes him jump. He quickly dries off with an overly plush hand-towel, quickly patting and pulling his uniform until it sits just right, and makes to leave. Opening the door, a startled little elven noble steps back, blinking up at him.

 

“Oh, I beg your pardon!”

 

Staldar steps aside with a murmured apology, and the elf watches him as he passes to enter the water closet. Staldar resists the urge to roll his eyes once the elf is out of sight, and decides to explore the hall a little further, rather than return to the ballroom.

 

The most notable feature of the hall is the series of paintings that hang, vivid, life-like renditions of important moments in New Kyla’s history, from its founding atop the Old Civilization, Kyla-Rhonin, to present day. Portraits of past Praetors hung alongside important historical figures, nobles and councilmen. A new portrait hangs alongside them, standing out against the sea of lighter faces; Isa Amakiir, the first dark elf to ever be elected Praetor. She’s beautiful, of course, but the painting captures a fierceness in her eyes, shoulders squared back, chin high. She does not smile in the portrait, as many do, her mouth barely parted as if ready to speak a command.

 

He remembers her campaigning, and subsequent address upon being elected. Her fervor ignited something in the people, in him. She did not speak like the others vying for the position. She didn’t offer the people platitudes and promises of  wealth and prosperity. She spoke of change. She spoke of reform. She spoke of hope.

 

There was no competition. More citizens voted then ever before in Kyla’s history.

 

He wishes to hear her speak again.

 

He continues down the hall, which opens up to a row of large window panes facing a small garden, complete with a patio. Strangely, no snow has settled in the garden, perhaps by some kind of magic, but there’s still a frost over the plants, flowers gone until the spring comes. Looking about, he sees that there is a door out to the garden. Better yet, it’s unlocked. Wonderful.

 

He lets himself out, shutting the door behind himself. The cold air envelopes him readily, the night calm and still and silent. His headache starts to wane, bit by bit, the tension across his body relaxing, and he walks deeper into the garden. There’s a fountain, stream of water frozen and glinting in the moons’ light, an elven figure endlessly forever pouring water into a motionless pool. She’s smiles benevolently, gazing into the icy surface. Looking at her own reflection? The moons?  _ ‘Nothing. She’s a statue,’  _ Staldar thinks with a snort.

 

Meandering, he finds himself fascinated by another fountain mounted into a wall, bordering the garden. This elf weeps, tears frozen mid-trickle down her face. It’s not an ugly sort of misery, not a twisted mask of agony, but a gentle look of yearning, sorrow. Her eyes are cast upward, as if looking to the heavens, palms upturned, icicles hanging from her hands. Staldar almost misses it, but there are frozen coins in her palms, just catching the meager light of the lanterns standing guard. Almost unthinkingly, he pats around his uniform for any stray coin he may have placed in his pockets. None.

 

“You’ll have to forgive me, fair lady,” he sighs. “It appears I left all my coin with the coat check.”

 

“Staldar, is that you? Who are you talking to?”

 

Staldar jumps again, heart lurching in his chest. He turns to see Miareth, shivering, coming around the tall evergreen hedges. He hadn’t heard her come out.

 

“Miareth, what are you doing out here? Are you not cold?”

 

“I could ask you the same thing! Were you… just talking to someone?” She looks about, confused, arms wrapped around herself.

 

“Well, if talking to statues counts as talking to someone, then yes,” Staldar chuckles, gesturing to the fountain.

 

“She’s not much of a conversationalist, is she?” Miareth giggles.

 

“That’s alright. Neither am I,” Staldar says, shaking his head. “Come, let us head back inside. I’ve gotten my fresh air.”

 

“Yes, let’s!”

 

They head back to the door, Miareth leading the way, but upon trying the handle, it does not budge. She tries again, putting more weight behind her push and pull. She looks back at Staldar, mouth parted, eyes wide.

 

“Let me try,” he says, brow furrowed. She moves, and he tugs hard, the glass door rattling a little, but still not yielding. He pulls harder, for longer, not yanking, but playing tug-of-war now, digging his claws as much as he can into the flagstones. Still nothing. “Blast!” He grunts, giving up. “I should have known. Wouldn’t want any unwanted guests sneaking in.”

 

“Th-then why isn’t it locked from the  _ inside _ as well?” Miareth groans, shuffling and wriggling in place from the cold.

 

“... In case of an emergency, perhaps, like a fire? If a hasty exit or evacuation is needed?”

 

“Ah,” she replies meekly. Staldar thinks, looking around for a possible solution. At least, a solution that doesn’t involve breaking the door.

 

“I know you’re a healer, but do you know anything that may let us in? Or some way to contact anyone inside?

 

She thinks for a moment, biting her lip, then shakes her head.

 

“No, I’m sorry… I really don’t. I know a few extra spells for their practicality, but I’m only really trained in the healing arts.” Her cheeks and nose are beginning to turn rosy again, teeth chattering. “I suppose we’ll have to hope someone comes by,” she says sadly.

 

“Or I break the door,” Staldar huffs.

 

“Gods, no, Staldar, if you do that they will never invite us back!”

 

“... Very well. We’ll wait, then,” he concedes, leaning against one of the panes. He watches Miareth shiver and pace for a few moments, before he starts undoing one column of the buttons his jacket. Miareth stops, staring at him as if he had grown a second head.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Come here. You’re freezing.”

 

“I don’t see how you aren’t!” She’s aghast, but comes close anyways, gloved hands tucked between her arms and ribs.

 

“The cold has never bothered me. Perhaps my heritage could explain it.” He unbuckles the belt that cinches the jacket to his waist, pulling the garment off. He swings it over her shoulders, pulling it closed around her tiny frame, extra fabric hanging loosely around her. She gasps, blushing bright suddenly. “What?”

 

“Sorry! It’s just-- it’s very warm,” she mumbles, pulling the jacket up around her face, guarding her face from the cold. “No wonder you can stand the cold, you’re a walking furnace!” Her little voice comes out muffled, and Staldar laughs.

 

“You’re not the first to tell me this.” He watches her for a moment more, seeing her shivers subside a little. “What did you come out here for, anyways? Maybe I can stand the cold, but you’re clearly miserable out here.”

 

“I was looking for you! Adok asked me to check on you, said you were looking poorly, like maybe you were sick.”   
  


“Ah,” Staldar breathes, warm breath turning to vapor in the cold air. “Well, I suppose I should thank you both for your concern, but I told him I was fine.”

 

“Yes, so I see,” she grouses. “Neither of us are going to be fine if we spend very much longer out in this cold, however!” She peers through the glass, making a sound of frustration. “I bet they wouldn’t even hear us if we called,” she groans, pulling his jacket even tighter around herself, teeth starting to chatter.

 

Staldar, hating to see her so cold, pulls her close, trying to shield her from the elements. She gives a surprised little ‘mph!’ but allows him to hold her, looking embarrassed.

 

“Th-thanks,” she whispers, leaning into his warmth. He feels her little tremors lessen marginally.

 

“It’s the least I can do,” he murmurs. “I could also break down the door.” She snorts.

 

“... Not yet.  _ Someone _ will come and let us in. Someone  _ must _ come… Maybe Adok o-or someone else will notice we’re missing…”

 

Staldar feels a pang of guilt. His presence had brought her out here, caused her to become trapped with him out in the frigid winter air, missing all of the merry-making happening inside. She’d been so excited. Now she’s shivering in her pretty little gown, stuck with no one for company but him, and the quiet chill of night. He rubs her back gently, her little face tucked against his chest, trembling from cold.

 

It’s quiet for a few long moments before Staldar swallows.

 

“I’m sorry, Miareth.”   
  


“Sorry? Whatever for?”

 

“You’re stuck out here because of me, when you should be inside, with your friends.”

 

“Oh! Staldar!” She cries in shock, looking up at him with warm eyes, wide eyes. “Don’t be sorry for this! This is hardly your fault! A-and besides, you  _ are  _ my friend!” She pauses, looking uncertain. “I mean, aren’t you? I-I know you’re more… introverted, but, um, I had thought…” She looks away, biting her lip in thought again.

 

Staldar is stunned for a moment, blinking.

 

“You… consider me a friend?” She must hear the disbelief in his voice, from her expression.

 

“Of  _ course _ I consider you my friend, Staldar! Why else would I insist you come to the ball in the first place?”

 

“... I thought you and Adok were merely trying to be polite. Inclusive. I’m a new S.O. and I’m not exactly…”  _ ‘Well-liked. Personable. Popular. Charming.’ _

 

“We’ve considered you our friend for some time, now. We  _ enjoy _ your company, Staldar. We know your reputation, but we also know  _ you.”  _ Her voice goes soft. “The quiet, soft-spoken you. The sardonic, funny you. The caring, protective you.” Staldar’s heart twists painfully in his chest.

 

“... You and Adok both over exaggerate...”

 

He feels her arms, which had been tucked between their fronts, wrap around his waist, hugging his middle firmly. For a moment, he’s not outside in the cold dark night, but inside the infirmary’s recovery room, Yorsashi embracing him, warm body pressed against his own, laughing and telling him he’s stubborn and daft.

 

“Please believe us when we say you’re a good man, Staldar,” Miareth whispers, and he blinks, and it’s dark again, and she’s much smaller and not so warm as Yorsashi, and he blinks again, and his eyes sting, filling with tears. She looks up and gasps. “What’s wrong? W-was that too much? I’m sorry,” she babbles, pulling her arms back, leaning away. Staldar just quickly shakes his head, quickly wiping away the tears.

 

“No. No, you’re alright, I’m… You simply humble me with your kind words, Miareth.” He clears his throat. “Forgive me, I honestly have been a little, ah, out of sorts all night. I’m not good with… these types of events. Not everyone sees me as, um, favorably, perhaps, as you or Adok.”  _ ‘It would be easier if they were allowed to simply hate me, like trainees do. It would be better if we all didn’t have to pretend to like each other,’  _ he thinks to himself.

 

“Well, if we’re just trading apologies now, then I’m sorry we pressured you into coming. We just didn’t want you to be lonely. And, please, you can call me ‘Mia.’ It’s what all of my friends like to call me.”

 

“Very well… Mia.”

 

She hums happily, cuddling up against his front again, both a gesture of affection and seeking the extra warmth.

 

“Breaking the door down is feeling more and more like a viable option,” she huffs.

 

“Mia, if you mean that, I will gladly do it.”

 

“... Yes, alright, but be  _ very _ careful. With any luck someone here will know a mending spell and they’ll forgive us if we explain ourselves thoroughly.” She backs up, giving him a little space.

 

Staldar tests the door again, this time simply feeling its weight, getting a sense of how best to make it yield. He decides breaking the lock itself may be the best bet, if he doesn't want to break the glass. Just as he’s about to throw his weight against the door, Miareth gasps, almost shouting at him.

 

“Wait! Wait, wait, wait! I see someone coming down the hall!” She scurries forward, trying to see in better. “Oh, thank the Gods, it’s Adok!  _ Adok! Adok, open the door for us, please!”  _ She calls, and Staldar finally sees him hurrying over. With a click, he opens the door.

 

“What in the nine hells are you two doing out here in the cold?”

 

Miareth just pushes past him in a hurry, Staldar right behind her.

 

“Oh my Gods, Adok, I’ve never been so happy to see you. I thought I’d lose my toes to the cold before anyone came to rescue us! The silly door locked behind us!”

 

“Poor lass, we’ll get some mulled wine into you, set you by the hearth in the smoking lounge, warm you right up, hm? But why were you out there in the first place?” Adok fondly pats her ruddy cheeks.

 

“I’m afraid that was my fault. I needed a reprieve from the festivities, so I took a walk through the garden, not knowing the door would lock. Mia came to find me and was locked out as well,” Staldar admits. Adok gives him a strange look.

 

“A walk in the garden? In this weather?”

 

“If you knew what the cold felt like to me, it wouldn’t seem so bizarre,” Staldar sighs. “That’s beside the point. Let’s just help Mia warm up.” He begins leading Mia down the hall, Adok quickly following.

 

“Here, you can have your jacket back,” she offers, starting to lift the overlarge article off her shoulders, but Staldar shakes his head and eases it back down.

 

“Keep it until you’re a bit warmer.”

 

“Aw, ever the gentleman, how sweet,” Adok coos. Staldar flushes a little.

 

“Oh, shush, Adok, don’t tease,” Miareth reprimands. “He’s just being a good friend.” Adok chuckles, winking.

 

“I know, I know. I just also know he’s a big softie and he gets flustered when I point it out.”

 

“Don’t go saying such things around my cadets, they’ll act up and I’ll have to show them how much of ‘big softie’ I really am,” Staldar huffs, a small smile tugging at his mouth. Adok’s laugh echoes down the hall, Miareth following suit, Staldar finally giving into their mirth.

 

Once warmed by the fire, sipping on some warmed, spiced beverage, Miareth insists that, despite the incident, the night is young and she feels fine, returning Staldar’s jacket to him.

 

“Oh, we should dance! Just for a song or two!” She looks to Staldar, begging with her eyes.

 

“I’m afraid I’ve never learned how,” Staldar warns her.

 

“Then I’ll teach you! Just a basic waltz, it’s not terribly hard to learn.”

 

“... Yes, alright. If you insist.”

 

“Oh, I must see this,” Adok grins.

 

Miareth pulls him out to the ballroom floor, and wastes no time showing him exactly what to do. He’s sure it must be a little silly, watching the tiny elf instruct Staldar, leading him around the dance floor, but she’s right in that, when broken down, it’s deceptively simple, and before long, he’s leading quite competently. And he’s pleasantly surprised by how much he enjoys it. Miareth’s face when he figures out how to give her a twirl under his arm almost makes the entire night worth it.

 

An announcement is made, closer to the end of the night, that the Praetor would not be able to make it due to some disagreements in the trade talks that require her full attention, much to the disappointment of all the attendees.

 

“Sorry, Staldar. I spoke too soon,” Adok sighs.

 

“It’s fine,” Staldar replies easily. “Perhaps she’ll make it next year.”

* * *

 


	10. Crushed

* * *

**_“Crushed”_ **

* * *

 

  
  
  


Staldar does his job, and he does it well-- no matter what that job is.

 

His job is to turn recruits into soldiers and guards. And he is  _ very  _ efficient at it. His cadets come to him disorganized, sloppy, careless, sometimes even outright rebellious, and they don’t leave him until they meet his personal standards of performance.

 

He is received with equal parts fear, respect, and guttural hatred, infamous among all the recruits across companies. Some cadets are simple to work with, keeping their heads down, taking the training in stride. Some dig in their heels, fight him every step of the way.

 

The cadets that hate him? They are easy. He can work with that. The tough, volatile boys sent to him with big egos are the  _ easiest _ . Give them more laps, make them do push-ups with sandbags on their backs, find their Achilles heel and then humble them, then humble them some more. Find whatever they are overcompensating for and dig in until they cave. It can be brutal, he understands, and it often comes with humiliation, followed by bitterness, but they shape up eventually. Every once in a while, they even turn out to be the best soldiers given enough time.

 

The odd overachiever is a strange experience.

 

One cadet in particular gets under his skin. A very young elven man, lithe, tall, and handsome, as all elves tend to be, by the name of Lorsan. At first, he is simply a very well-conducted cadet, obedient and skilled, a fine soldier in the making who could quickly reach their potential at his current trajectory. But then he begins to hover, asking for extra duties, for more instruction and training, hanging on his every word with a disconcertingly intense gaze. Sometimes, he can’t help the narrowing of his eyes, looking down on the strange elf.

 

Lorsan calls out to him.

 

“Senior Officer Drachenhearth! Could you check my form, it feels off but, ah…”

 

Staldar narrows his eyes, having seen the elf perform his drills perfectly just the day before. Staldar motions to another cadet.

 

“Biric, you’re proficient, spot Cadet Perrona and correct him if need be.” 

 

Cadet Biric nods and hustles over. Staldar ignores the way Lorsan’s face falls. He finishes his drills perfectly. But the next day he tries this again, much to Staldar’s chagrin. Staldar ignores him. He eventually gives this up, to Staldar’s relief.

 

Lorsan turns up at the door of his office one day with a soft knock. Staldar instructs him to enter, and he does with a salute before falling into parade rest.

 

“Captain, our squad’s duties for the day are complete,” Lorsan informs him.

 

“Mm. And why is your squad leader not the one here to report this?”

 

“He was feeling poorly. He’s currently in the infirmary. I volunteered to report in his stead.” Lorsan shifts uncomfortably, and Staldar can tell he’s trying to hide his nervous energy.

 

“No one from the infirmary has informed me of his presence there,” Staldar fixes him with a look, carefully reading him.

 

“He was escorted to the infirmary only minutes ago, sir.”

 

“Very well, then. You are dismissed, cadet.”

 

“Uh, if I may have a moment of your time, Senior Officer, I wish to discuss something with you.” Staldar sighs internally, but simply goes back to his own reports spread across his desk. He continues writing.

 

“Speak.”

 

“Sir, I wish to express a concern of mine regarding, ah, my training and duties and such. I… I believe I am capable of taking on more challenging tasks and drills.” Staldar looks up again and can see a tiny flush spreading across his face. He’s watching Staldar intently, hopefully, but meeting Lorsan’s eyes always unnerves Staldar.

 

“And why do you believe that, Perrona?”

 

“A-ah, well, sir, it’s just that, um…”

 

“Cadet, if you can convince me that you’re capable of more, I’ll consider giving you more responsibilities. However, I do not think this is currently the case. I believe you are performing admirably, but you have not earned any sort of special consideration. Will that be all?” Lorsan visibly panics at this.

 

“N-no, sir, please, what can I do to convince you? I’ll do whatever it takes, I’ll prove that I’m--”

 

“At ease, Cadet,” Staldar growls, standing, crossing to the front of his desk. Lorsan immediately quiets, entering the correct stance, swallowing as Staldar looms. “I believe I’ve made myself clear, Perrona. You’d do best to demonstrate some patience, as it seems you are lacking. Now get out of my office.”

 

Staldar realizes just how close Lorsan is in that moment while towering over him, as the elf watches him, wide-eyed, hesitating. His feet still shift under him, as if debating something, unsure.

 

Suddenly, Lorsan lurches, closing the gap between them, hands alighting on his chest, tilting his head up so that his lips brush against Staldar’s jaw. His voice trembles slightly as he whispers.

 

“I meant it when I said I’ll do whatever it takes…”

 

Staldar reacts as if burned, shoving a little too hard at the thin elf, and he connects hard with the shelf behind him, causing it to rattle, falling to the ground with a whimper. Staldar struggles to process, the touch lingering like spider silk stuck to his skin, and he just wants to scratch and scrub the feeling away, horrified, confused. And then he’s concerned, guilty that he just hurt one of his cadets, who watches him from below with a pained face.

 

Finally, he’s angry. Furious. Lorsan must see this reflected in his expression, face going pale and ashen, and he rushes to try and stand, using the bookshelf to pull himself up.

 

“F-forgive me, sir, I overstepped, completely, I-I’ll leave--!”

 

“No.” Staldar reaches a large hand out, gripping the boy’s shoulder tightly at arm’s length. “You’ll stay and explain to me what exactly you think you were doing.” Despite the boiling of his blood, Staldar feels ice cold breaths escape his nose and mouth, puffs of steam curling around his face. He feels Lorsan shake in his grasp.

 

“I-it was a lapse in judgement, sir, I’m truly sorry--”

 

“I don’t want your apologies and excuses,” Staldar barks, temper flaring. Lorsan flinches, pressing himself flat against the shelf. “I want  _ answers _ ! Why did you do that?”

 

Tears start to gather in Lorsan’s eyes, though he fights them. His voice is meak.

 

“I… Some of the cadets, they s-say things, talk about their Senior Officers to one another, a-and I’d  _ heard _ things, so I…”

 

“Heard things? Heard things about  _ me _ ?”

 

“N-no! No, only other O-Officers. There were… suggestions made about them, th-that they would, a-ah, make arrangements with cadets for… favors…” Lorsan’s words get swallowed by his misery, tears spilling over now. “S-someone said that…  _ all _ Officers are l-like that…” Staldar’s fury is suddenly redirected, compounded by mortification at the implication. His grip slackens.

 

“I’m afraid you were misled.”

 

Lorsan just looks at him with wide, dark eyes, blinking, before bowing his head, platinum blonde hair hanging in curtains around his face. His voice breaks.

 

“I’ll accept whatever punishment you deem fit for my transgression, sir.” Staldar ignores this statement, instead moving to guide the elf into a seat.

 

“Sit down, cadet,” Staldar commands. Lorsan sits, and Staldar is given the impression of a wounded animal, a kicked dog, the elf holding himself, hunched, all the pride and pomp knocked out of him. Staldar crosses back to the other side of his desk, pulling some blank documents and parchment together. Almost as an afterthought, he pulls out a spare handkerchief from one of the drawers, holding it out for the weeping boy. Lorsan looks up, surprised, eyes still dripping with large, rolling teardrops. He accepts with handkerchief with mild confusion, wiping his face gratefully.

 

“Th-thank you, sir…”

 

“Tell me everything you heard,” is Staldar’s only reply, sitting back heavily in his own seat, steepling his fingers. Fear returns to Lorsan’s face.

  
“I’m not sure if I… I don’t think it’s my place to speak on such…”

 

Staldar’s patience thins, a pulse of frustration making him growl.

 

“Your insubordination is testing me, Perrona. That was an  _ order _ . Tell me what you know, now.”

 

Lorsan remains quiet, and Staldar sees the internal debate happening behind his eyes, biting his lip. Seeing his cadet continue to doubt the order, hesitating, his frustration grows. He finally snaps, slamming a fist down on the desk with a snarl, knocking over an ink well with a clatter. Lorsan jumps, covering his mouth his a hand.

 

“Damn it all, you will  _ not  _ disobey me! And no cadet of mine will protect lecherous cretins, of  _ any _ standing, from repercussion for their depravity! Do you not stand for the law? Do you not stand for justice?” A moment of quiet. “Those were not rhetorical questions, cadet.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Lorsan gasps out, removing his hand. He sits up a little straighter, face blotchy from crying.

 

“Then you will speak.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Lorsan sighs, taking a moment to compose himself. “I didn’t catch any of the the other cadets’ names. But there are always murmurs of Senior Officers who either… proposition cadets, o-or accept bribes. Often in the form of--,” Lorsan struggles for a moment, flush returning. “Physical relations. They all kept it vague, stating no details, but, ah, one name did keep coming up.” Staldar gestures for Lorsan to continue. “Sylvus.”

 

Staldar conceals his flare of anger. He knows Sylvus. And, worse yet, he finds he isn’t particularly surprised.

 

“No other names came up?”

 

“None, sir.”

 

“Very well, then.” Staldar wipes a hand over his face, suddenly far too tired for this conversation. “Tell me, did you come in with the intention of attempting to…  _ seduce _ me?” He feels disgusting even as he says it, unable to meet Lorsan’s eyes, sneering at the wall. “Have I given you such a poor impression of myself? That I would engage in such corruption?” Lorsan’s face falls again, dejection clear as day.

 

“ _ No,  _ no, sir, that wasn’t at all what--! It wasn’t meant to go like this.”

 

“And how was it supposed to go, Perrona? Your actions only tell me you are overambitious and naive to a fault and that you believed me willing to take advantage of your station,” Staldar hisses vehemently. “You insult me, cadet.” Lorsan begins to cry in earnest once more, lips trembling, wringing the handkerchief in his hands.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I only-- I didn’t know how else t-to… get close, to you, to sh-show you--,” Lorsan flushes, clutching the handkerchief to his chest, trembling. Staldar’s burning anger at the situation turns cold, as if suddenly dropped into an icy pool, and he’s frozen for a moment. Then, he’s pulling a scroll from a nearby shelf, and procuring a fresh pot of ink and pen. He unfurls the scroll, and begins to fill in all the required information, speaking quickly.

 

“I’m filling out a transfer request form. I’m assigning you to a new Senior Officer, someone I trust. You will give this all to the Marshall, and then you will gather any belongings you have from your bunk and await further instruction. This does not affect your rank in any way, this simply means you will finish out your training in a new company.” He gets up again to pull another bundle of documents out, all of the files associated with Lorsan that he has access to.

 

“... Is this my… punishment, sir?” Lorsan’s voice is meak. Staldar pauses.

 

“If putting distance between us is punishment for you, then so be it.” His voice is dispassionate, far separated from the rage he felt before.

 

“B-but, sir--”   
  


“I’m not giving you a choice in the matter. You will do this.” Lorsan looks stricken, but nods, bowing his head once more. Staldar’s heart breaks a little for the boy, but he remains cold, closed off. “You are skilled. You have talent. With a little discipline, success will find you. I am only sorry that I will not be the one to see to it that this becomes true.”

 

Staldar pushes the scroll and documents to the elf, who reluctantly takes them with shaking hands.

 

“And, you needn’t worry about what you’ve told me. It will be handled and should never come back to you.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Unless there is anything else you wish to discuss, you may be dismissed.”

 

“No, sir. Thank you, sir.” Lorsan hastily wipes away the rest of his tears, setting himself as much to rights a he can. He looks at the handkerchief in his hand, then places it on the edge of the desk with a rueful sort of smile. “Sorry to return a sullied handkerchief,” Lorsan laughs wetly, clearing his throat. “But I don’t think I should take it. It feels a bit too much like a… token, though I know better.” He blinks rapidly for a moment, tears threatening to spill again, and he turns quickly, papers held close to his chest. “Goodbye, sir.”

 

Before Staldar can say anything else, Lorsan all but flees, closing the door swiftly behind himself, and Staldar is left alone in his little office, and the ensuing silence.

 

Staldar spends a few moments gathering his thoughts. He looks about and sees that, in that short amount of time, his space was now in some disarray, a few books on the floor from the shelf, ink spilled and running off of his desk, papers strewn about. But he can’t bring himself to correct this. He’s conflicted, wishing to sit still and decompress, his heart still beating too hard and fast in his chest. But he wants to move. He wants to run laps or whack at one of the training pells until he’s too tired to think, or feel, or hurt over this failure.

 

He thinks of Sylvus.

 

He wants to punch the man’s head off of his shoulders.

 

He rises and stalks over to the other Officer’s quarters.

* * *

 


	11. Ceremony

* * *

**_“Ceremony”_ **

* * *

 

  
  


The induction of Tiamat’s Fangs and their combined promotions are, according to their superiors, call for a ceremony followed by a military ball.

 

The official proceedings do not actually take very long. They stand before Praetor Amakiir in matching dress uniforms, kneel, salute, go through the recitations, receive their marks of rank. It’s all a bit surreal to Staldar, who sees himself as little more than a simple soldier.  _ ‘Surely this is overkill _ ,’ he thinks to himself. It all feels so uncomfortably excessive.

 

Despite his doubts, it is no small privilege to meet Praetor Amakiir. The tall drow woman exudes something strong, powerful, but not unkind. She has a magnetism. It’s hard not to favor her.

 

But their interaction is brief. She does not stay for the duration of the ball. Staldar wishes he could make the same graceful exit, but alas, there’s no leaving a party thrown in your honor. There’s little to do but eat, drink, mingle, and dance, and quite frankly, none of these things hold any appeal to the austere dragonborn. He endures a few rounds of greetings, handshakes, bows, and small-talk before he feels the need to make an escape, at least for a moment. An elf he’s never met and likely won’t remember hands him a champagne flute that he would feel remiss in denying before searching for a reprieve.

 

He finds a small balcony, dimly lit and devoid of attendees, and mostly out of sight of the ballroom. Stepping into the cool night air, the mid-harvest chill making his breaths appear in puffs, he leans against the balustrade, drink still in hand. He watches the pearlescent liquid sparkle and fizz for a moment before slowly tipping the flute, a thin stream of champagne falling into a hedge bellow, until the glass is empty.  _ ‘For those who could not join us on this fine evening,’  _ he thinks morbidly.

 

“Staldar?”

 

Staldar startles at the sound of Yorsashi’s voice, not expecting to be followed out, and the thin stem of the glass slips from between his large fingers. He fumbles to save it, but it too falls into the hedge bellow, swallowed by dark foliage.

 

“... Shit.”

 

“Oops,” Yorsashi says quietly next to him, peering over the edge of the balcony.

 

“Remind me to inquire about a bell that I may tie around your neck so you can’t sneak up on me as you are so wont to do.”

 

“I’ll be sure to tread a little louder next time. Maybe I can learn a thing or two from you or Hekkras.”

 

Staldar gives a snort of amusement before going quiet, looking to the moons, realizing they’re both full.  It’s rather beautiful.

 

“It’s a beautiful night,” Yorsashi whispers next to him, voicing Staldar’s own thoughts.

 

“Yes. It is.”

 

“You would rather be anywhere else, wouldn’t you?”

 

“Yes. I would.”

 

“Would you prefer I let you alone?”

 

Staldar blinks at that, thinking for a moment.

 

“No. Forgive me. Why don’t we rejoin the others? I’ve gotten my fresh air.”

 

Yorsashi looks conflicted for a moment.

 

“Would you mind staying with me, out here, just a moment longer?”

 

“Not at all.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

They both share in the quiet of the night, watching the moons, the music and chatter distant and muffled. But Staldar finds his eyes drawn to the smaller dragonborn. Their years apart had changed Yorsashi a bit, made him lean and lithe, but his deep green scales are as immaculate as ever, eyes still bright, a shade of blue Staldar can’t name. He’s a sight for sore eyes. Tonight especially, in the well tailored dress uniform, he cuts a dashing figure.  _ ‘He’s gorgeous…’  _ Yorsashi's voice brings him out of reverie.

 

“This may sound a bit fanciful, but… the moons tonight, they’re rather like eyes, don’t you think? Looking down on us, the same way we look up at them. The watchful gaze of Bahamut…” Yorsashi looks over to Staldar, before tilting his head. “You’re giving me a strange look. Have I said something wrong?”

 

Staldar turns his head bashfully, trying to hide his embarrassment with a cough.

“No, no, it’s not that, it’s just… Forgive me for staring. I simply missed your company.”

 

Yorsashi makes a pleased expression, turning back to the night sky.

 

“I missed you as well, Staldar.”

* * *

 


	12. The Balance

* * *

**_“The Balance”_ **

* * *

 

  
  


Staldar is poring over a map and a set of scrolls, the details provided for their next mission, in the now empty meeting room the Fangs use to consult and make preparations. The map and documents are now full of little notations, Prith’s elegant script in the margins. Staldar is making his own notes and revisions when a soft knock on the doorframe gets his attention. Yorsashi leans, watching Staldar with some interest.

 

“Forgive me, if you are busy--”

 

“No, please, come in. Do you need anything?”

 

“I only found myself with a free moment and was hoping you might have some time as well,” Yorsashi says, taking a seat across the wide table. He leans in, glancing at all the notes and scribblings. “You’ve made many additions since our meeting.”

 

“Prith is a skilled strategist, to be sure, but he is no tactician. We will review again in the morning and finalize our plans. We are due to leave the day after.”

 

“So soon. Well, with Bahamut’s blessing and our hard work, the mission should be a success.”

 

Staldar begins reorganizing the scrolls, tidying the space, when he pauses.

 

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. It’s a small thing, but I’m interested in your thoughts on the matter.” Yorsashi perks up at this.

 

“Oh?”

 

“How do you feel about our title, ‘Tiamat’s Fangs?’”

 

“How do you mean?”

 

“You hold a great deal of love for Bahamut, do you not? You described Tiamat to me as being his enemy. Does it not give you pause that she is our namesake?”

 

“Ah, I see.” Yorsashi hums thoughtfully for a moment. “Perhaps a better term is ‘rivals.’ And if I made it sounds as though Tiamat is to be hated, that was unintentional.”

 

“So… you take no issue in being associated with her, at least, in part?”

 

“Truly, I don’t. It’s an… interesting choice, but I think I understand it.”

 

At that moment a polite cough from the doorway alerts them of Krax’s presence. He gives a shorthand salute.

 

“Majors. I don’t mean to intrude, but I overheard some of your conversation in-passing. I thought I could add some perspective, if you are interested,” the small, black dragon speaks up, in his soft-spoken voice.

 

“Ah, right, you said you  worship Tiamat? If I’m not misremembering,” Yorsashi states, tilting his head.

 

“You remember correctly. While typically Tiamat and Bahamut are at odds with one another, their relation to one another is more complicated than it appears on the surface; it’s not so black and white.” Krax steps in further, leaning back against the wall. “Tiamat, while vicious, chaotic, is also an immensely powerful being. That kind of power is something to fear… and respect. She is both strong-willed and a strong fighter. This is where I believe our name is meant to be derived.” Yorsashi nods along.

 

“Yes, my thoughts exactly. Bahamut, while he certainly can fight, likes to settle disputes with diplomacy. ‘Tiamat’s Fangs’ is far more befitting a name for elite soldiers, in that regard.” Krax hums in agreement, pushing off of the wall, putting each hand out with his palms up.

 

“Our role in this world is not a gentle one, but I’m sure we all agree it is a highly necessary one. We keep the balance. We, the strong, shed blood so that the meek need not.” Krax then neatly folds his hands behind his back. “That is how I choose to see it, at any rate.”

 

Staldar leans back in his seat, wood creaking with the movement.

 

“I appreciate your insights, both of you.”

 

“Of course!” Yorsashi smiles over at Staldar.

 

“I also wanted to let you know that we will be dining soon, should you care to join us,” Krax advises.

 

“You two should go ahead. I have a few things to take care of here, it won’t take long.” Staldar moves to start organizing papers again. Krax nods, quickly taking his leave, but Yorsashi lingers a moment in the doorway, watching Staldar. Staldar feels his eyes on him, pausing to meet them. “Yes?”

 

Yorsashi quickly looks away, hiding his embarrassment.

 

“I-it’s nothing, just… Don’t overwork yourself, Staldar. I know how you are.”

 

“I promise I’ll be down shortly,” Staldar says, not ungently. Yorsashi, seemingly satisfied, turns the corner, following Krax.

 

Listening to Yorsashi’s retreating footsteps, Staldar finishes his decluttering before sitting back down for a moment. He reaches up to touch the cold medal on his chest before pulling it off. On it is their insignia, the five-headed dragon, embossed into the cold metal disc. It’s a beautiful piece of metalwork.

 

_ ‘I shouldn’t keep him waiting…’ _

 

He blows out the candles as he leaves, medal hanging from around his neck once more.

* * *

 


	13. Much Ado

* * *

**_“Much Ado”_ **

* * *

 

Once Prith gets over the initial snub of being forced to give up the room on the sunny side of the keep, he warms up again quickly-- if ‘warm' actually means ‘becomes completely invasive and crude.’

  
Prith does not do subtlety— or shame, for that matter. He thinks highly of himself, and thinks everyone should think highly of him too (provided, somehow, they don't already). He is a jewel, something to be coveted and admired. Valuable. But unlike a jewel, he is no mere bauble. He is talented, sharp, brains to match his beauty. He is deadly. He is, simply put, the Best. So, naturally, he deserves only the best; the best clothes, the best quarters, the best lovers. But what he deserves doesn’t necessarily align with what he has access to. It’s not ideal. But he can make do.   
  
It only takes one pass at Major Frostbite to realize he isn’t on the table and likely never will be. Staldar simply narrows his eyes at him, sneering, twisting Prith’s arm, roughly removing his hand from his person.   
  
“I will not tolerate such advances. I will not warn you again.” His voice is low, growly, threatening, and his grip is vaguely painful. The brute.   
  
What a waste.   
  
Prith wonders if its because he’s too preoccupied with the little green one, Yorsashi. Prith must admit, Yorsashi is cute and sweet (not that he has anything on Prith, of course), and they already seem to have… something? It actually baffles Prith, the way Yorsashi so openly invites Staldar’s attentions, so clearly wants him, but Staldar, for the most part, appears utterly oblivious. But even weirder is that, despite Staldar’s apparent ignorance, despite Staldar’s prudish nature, he clearly returns Yorsashi’s feelings. The whole room-assignment debacle was his first clue. Staldar could have easily claimed the room for himself, but instead he went out of his way to make sure Yorsashi took it. If it was simply an attempt to make an example of them, teach them all a lesson, well, all Prith learned was that Staldar would give Yorsashi the shirt off his back if he asked.   
  
But that was also the problem. Staldar wouldn’t do that. Not the way Yorsashi seems to want, anyways-- meaning to say, Yorsashi wants to jump Staldar’s bones, no holds barred. Prith knows. And Staldar would bend over backwards to make sure Yorsashi is comfortable and cared for, but as soon as anything less platonic presents itself, he shies away.   
  
_ 'What the fuck  gives with these two _ ?' Prith decides to find out.   
  
He and Staldar are in the midst of reviewing some plans when he drops the question.

 

“So… Why are you beating around the bush and decidedly  _ not _ having your way with Yorsashi?” Prith doesn’t even look at Staldar as he asks, instead checking over his claws. They need a good filing.

 

Staldar looks up from where he’s taking notes and just watches Prith in confusion for a moment.

 

“What?” Gods, this man could be dense sometimes. Prith huffs.

 

“You know, the horizontal waltz? Sheathing your dagger in his scabbard? Making the beast with two backs?” Staldar just stares as if he’s speaking a foreign language. Prith rolls his eyes. “Why aren’t you two  _ fucking _ ?” And that seems to work, as Staldar’s face goes stormy, a hint of a flush appearing on his pale cheek bones.

 

“Major Sharpfang, we are in the middle of something rather important. I appreciate neither your prying nor your vulgarity.”

 

“Alright, but truly, are you an item or not? He’s practically throwing himself at your feet, but you string him along and never act on it. I don’t get it,” Prith says, leaning forward on the parchment strewn table. “And don’t try to tell me that you don’t return his feelings. It’s almost soppy, the way you two pine.” Prith gives a small, disgusted scoff. Staldar’s expression has gone unreadable, cold. He can’t quite look directly at Prith.

 

“You are mistaken. There is… There is nothing like that between us.”

 

“Oh? Is that so? Then you won’t mind if… try my luck with him, hm?”

 

Prith is convinced that the temperature of the room drops perceptibly in this moment. Staldar has gone from avoiding eye contact to staring Prith down. Prith stares back, chin tilted back in challenge, not so easily intimidated.

 

“I advise you maintain a professional distance to the rest of your company. Yorsashi included,” he intones, low, inflectionless. Prith grins.

 

“You mean to say ‘Yorsashi especially,’” he replies, glib. He delights in how Staldar’s mask breaks around the edges, mouth curling to flash his bared teeth for a moment before he regains control.

 

“You’re trying to get a rise out of me. Fine. Think what you will.” His eyes drift back down to the parchments strewn over the table, but his focus is broken, eyes flicking blankly over words. “I can’t stop you from making advances. But if the consequences of your relations damage our ability to work as a team, I’ll have you up for fraternization so fast, you’ll barely have time to pull your trousers up.”

 

Prith barely manages to hold back a bark of laughter. ‘ _ Who does this guy think he is?’ _

 

“With all due respect, Major, those aren’t the words of a man completely uninvested. That was a whole lot of lip service and threats just to tell me ‘he’s off limits.’” He stands then, stretching, turning as if to leave. Staldar also stands, chair creaking loudly against the hardwood floors.

 

“Where in the hells do you think you’re going? We’re not finished with this assignment.”

 

“Let’s adjourn for the time being. I’m peckish, and you need time to… let off some steam. Literally.” He chuckles, gesturing to the cold puffs of breath appearing at the end of Staldar’s nose. Staldar flushes, covering his mouth with a hand, before squaring his shoulders, placing his hands firmly behind his back.

 

“Very well. We’ll finish our plans tomorrow. I expect to see you before noon.”

 

“Understood. Have a good evening, Major.”

 

Staldar, understandably, does not return the sentiment.

 

Prith feels like a child with a brand new toy.


	14. Combatant

* * *

**_“Combatant”_ **

* * *

 

  
  


Hekkras doesn’t hesitate to make his disdain for Staldar known right away.

 

This is nothing new for Staldar. He hadn’t exactly gone to any lengths to endear himself to any of his new team members, least of all a violent hot-head with a penchant for reckless, destructive behavior. Staldar gives the matter little thought. He’s done being an S.O.

 

However, this resentment only grows, culminating into an inevitable outburst.

 

They’re planning out only their second mission, all hovering over the annotated map provided by the higher ups. Staldar and Prith are going back and forth on an issue.

 

“What if we used  _ this _ formation, split them into manageable groups--”

 

“This leaves some of us too exposed, too many openings. Can we--,” Staldar starts to draw out a new example, explaining, but is interrupted by a growl and a thump at the other end of the table.

 

“I’m tired of this shit! We’re supposed to be Kyla’s best, the strongest of the strong, and we’re sitting here nitpicking and twiddling our thumbs! Let’s just  _ go _ , kill the fuckers, and be done with it! This is small-time shit, anyways,” Hekkras complains loudly, fists clenched on the table. Prith and Krax give Hekkras scathing looks, Yorsashi looking nervously between him and Staldar. Staldar remains placid, taking this in stride.

 

“You have a plan of action then, Major?”

 

“You deaf? We go in, kill them, call in the clean-up crew, and call it done!”

 

“And how do you propose we ‘go in?’”

 

“The place has got doors aplenty, take yer fuckin’ pick!”

 

“And if they’re locked or barricaded or rigged with traps? What then, Major?”

 

“ _ Aagh _ , fucking--!” Hekkras fumes incoherently for a moment, wisps of smoking starting to rise from his nose. “If you think a  _ door _ is a godsdamned obstacle, you’re weaker than I thought, Drachenhearth!” Staldar narrows his eyes, but knows this is simply bait.

 

“I’m done humoring this. Unless you have a plan, Major Bellren, you will remain quiet or you will leave,” Staldar says plainly, turning his attention back to the map. Krax and Yorsashi seem relieved by this ultimatum, Prith more so entertained by the sudden conflict. Hekkras does not back down.

 

“I’m real damn tired of you throwing your weight around,  _ Major _ ,” Hekkras growls, crossing the table to get in Staldar’s face.

 

“Well, get used to it, unless you’re not strong enough to bear it,  _ Major _ ,” Staldar hisses without missing a beat, nose-to-nose and chest-to-chest with Hekkras, who puffs up.

 

“Are you implying I’m  _ weak _ ?”

 

“I don’t know, Hekkras. Are you?” There’s a moment of quiet as they stare each other down, Hekkras growling quietly, before Staldar scoffs and turns to return to the task at hand. Hekkras, quick as a whip, grabs Staldar’s shoulder and yanks him back around, winding back for a punch, and before Staldar can really react, Hekkras socks him across the nose so hard his head snaps to the side. The other three dragonborn gasp, Yorsashi crying out for Hekkras to stop.

 

The surprise strike ignites something in Staldar, and the control he’d had before melting into indignant wrath, steam billowing from his mouth. With a snarl, Staldar grabs Hekkras by the collar of his shirt, slamming him back against the wall, pinning him in place.

 

“I won’t play these games with you, Hekkras Quincy Bellren,” Staldar intones darkly. “This ends with you leaving right now, or I  _ make _ you leave and have you removed from the Fangs. Decide.”

 

The room goes tense and quiet again, Hekkras breathing hard, glaring daggers into Staldar. Seemingly out of nowhere, Prith snorts quietly behind them, covering his mouth, trying to hold back his mirth. Staldar turns slightly with confusion.

 

“I’m sorry, is something amusing?”

 

“ _ Quincy _ ,” Prith titters, shaking with restrained laughter. Krax sighs, dragging a hand over his face while shaking his head. Yorsashi blinks, cocking his head at Prith. Staldar’s rage is extinguished once more, replaced by a mix of exhaustion and defeat.

 

“Ugh, fuck this.”

 

Hekkras impatiently jerks out of Staldar’s grasp, stomping past, still smoking with frustration.

 

“Later, Quincy,” Prith jeers with a cheesy grin. Hekkras just bares his teeth at him, throwing him a rude gesture before slamming the door behind him with enough force to make everything in the room rattle faintly.

 

“Don’t antagonize him, Prith,” Staldar says gruffly, smoothing down the front of his uniform, leaning over the maps once more. “I’ll deal with him later. I don’t need a loose cannon fucking up our hard work.”

 

“Uh, Stal-- Major, you’re bleeding,” Yorsashi says, quickly fishing a handkerchief out of his breast pocket. Staldar feels around the end of his nose to find it’s true, a trickle of blood trailing down from his mouth, a tiny cut left from Hekkras’ jab. He takes the proffered cloth gratefully, dabbing at the wound.

 

“Damn… The man can throw a punch,” Staldar says, mildly impressed. “Let’s wrap this up.”

* * *

 


	15. Wine Nor Weed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, a chapter summary! Rare!
> 
> Mostly, I want to apologize for the format of this one, as it is 99.9% dialogue, but I was trying to get through a lot of content very quickly to reach the central idea of this chapter.
> 
> Also, this one is particularly important to remember that chapters are organized in chronological order, but not written in chronological order. Knowing this will help you avoid confusion if you are a returning reader!

* * *

**_“Wine Nor Weed”_ **

* * *

  


Tiamat’s Fangs had deployed on many long-term assignments the past five years, but none so long as this. Staldar’s brow furrows, reading their debrief.

 

 _‘... Within the month, Tiamat’s Fangs will be deployed on an extended surveillance and investigation campaign, with the intention to mobilize against early anti-Councilship movements and illicit trade dealings with treasonous intent. Following documents detail a_ **_two-year_ ** _plan of action. Orders to review and supply revisions and additional requisitions.”_

 

“Two _years_ ? Two years _where_?!” Prith jumps out of his seat, fists clenched at his sides. “Six months was hard enough out in the fucking middle of the wilderness, they can’t send us back out for two whole godsdamned years!”

 

“They can, and they are,” Staldar sighs, unfolding the provided map, spreading it across the length of the table. “They’ve already notated our rotation, it seems. Essentially, we’re patrolling the border.”

 

“The border, the _fucking border_ ! They’re sending us as far a-fucking-way as they possibly can without leaving the territory all-together! _For years!_ ” Prith seeths, beginning to pace around the room.

 

“At least it’s the border and not the caves,” Yorsashi sighs, but doesn’t look as optimistic as his words would suggest. “But yes, two years is… no small thing.”

 

“Just finish reading the summary, Major. I want to know just how much revising this plan is going to need. I fear it’s going to be quite a lot,” Krax interjects, only looking mildly perturbed. Hekkras already looks tired of the discussion from his seat at the table, scowling.

 

They spend the entire evening poring over the provided documents, moods slowly growing more and more sour.

 

Two weeks later, they’re posted out in the Kylan wilderness, where they will stay for seven-hundred-and-thirty days.

**_…_ **

 

Summer arrives, with all its heat and sunshine, chasing away the late spring-time rain. The wilds are in full-bloom. Prith, Hekkras, and Yorsashi welcome the warm weather, seemingly rejuvenated by the appearance of the sun.

 

Staldar and Krax are unified in their disdain for the insufferable heat, seeking refuge in the shade as best they can.

 

“How badly maimed do you think I would need to be in order to be relieved of duty?” Krax grumbles, pulling down a pair of black lenses over his eyes, sneering. Staldar snorts.

 

“The only way you’ll be sent back before this is done is in a casket.”

 

“... You know, I’ve worked on a substance before that had the uncanny ability to cause the consumer to experience false death.”

 

“I know you are joking, but I still feel the need to tell you that I expressly forbid this course of action.”

 

Krax makes a displeased face, but leans back into the tree, falling quiet. Staldar stands up with a groan, wiping the sweat from his brow. Even dressed down to his basic summer uniform, loose linen more forgiving than usual, he feels the fabric sticking to his scales unpleasantly. As loathe as he is to do anything, he still needs to maintain camp. Replenishing their firewood had become one of his unspoken chores, so he grabs a hatchet along his way and pulls the best looking logs from their growing pile, and sets to work.

 

Despite the heat, it’s a task he finds some gratification in, rather like taking swings at a training pell. He sweats all the harder, before finally shedding his shirts, fed up with how the fabric clings to him. He cuts enough for the next three nights, stacking the freshly cut wood neatly, collecting what excess chips and tinder he can, before the other three return from their scouting. Staldar greets them with a nod, wiping sweat from his face and draining a sun-warmed skein of water, letting it drip, wicking away some of the pollen and salt away with it. Hekkras and Prith return the gesture as they approach, though notably, Yorsashi skirts to the edge of camp, arms laden with something. Staldar furrows his brow.

 

“Anything new to report?”

 

“Zip. Zilch. Just like everyday out here in the middle of nowhere!” Prith sighs, plunking himself down on a log-turned-bench at the center of their encampment, looking bored. Halfway through unbuckling his armor, however, he perks up with a sly smile. “We did do some… foraging, however.”

 

Hekkras grunts as he takes a seat opposite of Prith, leaning his weapons up against the log.

 

“I don’t know what that green pipsqueak thinks he’s going to accomplish with _flowers_.”

 

“Oh, ye of little faith! Sashimi is a clever one, he knows what he’s doing,” Prith reassures, though Hekkras just rolls his eyes.

 

“Clever only gets ya so far. It’ll be a miracle if it turns out anywhere near drinkable.”

 

“Well, I’m choosing to have something to look forward to, because frankly, this entire useless fucking venture has left me with little else to do but hope we can make our own fun out here.”

 

Staldar begins to ask what in Gaiul they’re talking about when Yorsashi jogs over to their supply crates, rooting around for something.

 

“Do we still have sugar? Honey?”

 

“There should be an unopened jar somewhere abouts,” Krax replies as he joins them in the clearing. “What do you need it for?”

 

Yorsashi smiles and begins to reply before stopping himself, glancing in Staldar’s direction before subtly flushing and cupping a hand over his mouth, leaning to whisper into Krax’s ear. Staldar huffs.

 

“Alright, what are we talking about? Yorsashi, what are you making?” He questions, folding his arms across his chest. Yorsashi’s face grows guilty.

 

“I only want to try it, there’s a chance it won’t even work, or it will go bad before it turns into anything,” Yorsashi prefaces, digging a clawed toe into the dirt, looking anywhere but at Staldar. “We just… tend to eat and drink a lot of the same things over and over during these missions and there’s just so much abundance this summer, I had an idea, and so—”

 

“‘Sashi’s gonna try making wine!” Prith crows from where’s he’s reclined. Yorsashi flushes more, twiddling his thumbs. Staldar feels his face pinch with displeasure and Yorsashi shrinks into himself even more. Staldar bites his tongue, letting his tone soften.

 

“I— Listen, I understand that all of this can be a bit, ah, demoralizing, but I don’t think this is wise,” Staldar sighs. “This isn’t our usual situation, I know we’re nearly out of Kyla’s territories, there’s really no protocol on this sort of thing, but this is still an assignment that requires vigilance.”

 

“Staldar, we’ve already been out here for months and seen _nothing_. These paranoid old farts don’t know what in the hells they’re on about, talking about usurpers and rebels and what-not. A little fucking dandelion wine isn’t going to be the downfall of all of Kyla,” Prith complains, sitting up with a pout. “Maybe you’re a pillar of sobriety and clean living and don’t miss it, but right now, I’d do a lot of unsavory things for a snifter full of the good shit, but I’ll sure as hells settle.”

 

Krax coughs politely.

 

“I’m not one for indulging too much, either, Major, but I find myself suffering… certain cravings as well. I believe we’re all missing a bit of what civilization has to offer. To enjoy a simple glass of wine with a meal again— well, it would bring no small amount of comfort,” Krax says, an uncharacteristic note of yearning in his voice. “Surely a bottle of wine is nothing to quibble over, in such strenuous circumstances?”

 

Staldar looks around, taking in their expressions, feeling his resolve crumble. Oh, but the heat’s weathered his will, too tired to make demands.

 

“It seems I’m outnumbered in this. Do as you will,” he says with a shake of his head, turning to head off to the nearby stream. “But if I find anyone shirking duties due to inebriation, there will be consequences.”

 

**_…_ **

 

Several months pass, and the air becomes chill, frost covering the ground. Staldar finally feels more like himself, energized. The others don’t share his exuberance.

 

“I think we’re due for an early snowfall this year,” Yorsashi mutters, shivering as the evening chill begins to set in once more.

 

“I think so too,” Staldar supplies, stretching his arms and rotating his shoulders. “We may even be in for a long winter.”

 

“Shit, don’t say that, you’ll _will_ it into being true,” Prith sneers, bundled up tight. Hekkras grunts his agreement, stoking the fire, throwing a fresh logs into the mix.

 

“We’re not exactly well-prepared for that, either. We’re still a week or more out from the next provisions drop off.”

 

“I’m not worried about the drop off. Even if it’s delayed, we can stretch what we have. We’ll be making do, but we’ll manage.”

 

“Fuck that,” Hekkras growls out, rubbing his arms. “I’m setting more traps, just in case, while there’s still any game to be had."

 

A lull falls over the little company as they settle down by the fire for the evening, each absorbed in their own little tasks, if not just keeping warm. Yorsashi seems particularly discomforted by the cool night air, breathing into his hands.

 

"Oh, I wish we could spend Harvest at the garrison. I'd do just about anything for a warm drink," he yawns, pulling his cloak around himself tighter. Prith sighs at this, nodding along.

 

"A cider, mulled wine, something, _anything_ would be perfect right about now.” Prith seems to deflate, closing his eyes, fantasizing about all the drinks he could be enjoying back in the city. He's lost in thought for a moment before he sits up, suddenly alert. "Yorsashi! What about that wine you’ve been working on?”

 

“Oh!” Yorsashi sits up straight, surprised. “Yes! Or, well, usually you let it age longer, it’s not going to be particularly good if we open it now,” Yorsashi says with some hesitation, looking conflicted.

 

“How long does it take for it to get ‘good’?”

 

“Six… months…” Yorsashi trails off, thinking. “Or we could just drink it now.”

 

“Hells yes, get it out and let’s start pouring! I’m tired of spending my nights freezing on the cold hard ground, any drink can make the nights more bearable.”

 

“I suppose I can go get it— it’s not much a winter-time drink, but— oh, I’ll just grab it,” Yorsashi mumbles, before jumping up and ducking into their tent.

 

“Three month old wine. It’s going to be… _nngh_ ,” Krax makes a sound of minor disgust, sticking out his tongue. “Sickly sweet and potent. What a combination. Gods.”

 

“I’ll take that over that hellish grain bullshit Hekkras insists on drinking. That stuff will burn a hole in you.”

 

“That frilly shit you drink is _perfume_ , not _alcohol_.”

 

“How would you know, you’ve ruined all your godsdamned taste buds by drinking acid!”

 

Staldar is already feeling his patience wear thin, and he begins to regret letting this happen. He clears his throat, interrupting their bickering.

 

“One drink. If it’s as strong as Krax says, one drink will be more than enough. I still need everyone lucid and aware for their shifts,” he intones not-so-gently, pointedly looking to Hekkras and Prith. Hekkras snorts with derision.

 

“Don’t insult me. I can handle my liquor.”

 

“Yeah, you can handle your liquor right up until a mediocre little floozie winks at you, and then you wake up Gods-know-how-much gold lighter and with a splitting head,” Prith snarks.

 

“At least the floozie’s got the sense to charge admission, you slag.”

 

“Fuck you, sleeping with me is _priceless_ , a _privilege,_ not a commodity that can be bought!”

 

“Yeah, it’s not a commodity, it’s _charity_ when you’ll happily do it for free.”

 

Prith looks about ready to jump at Hekkras with his claws out when Yorsashi emerges with a big grin, holding up a large jar of bright yellow liquid, flower petals floating at the top.

 

“Look! It’s turned such a lovely color!” He looks proud as he brings it over. “Let me get something to strain and pour it into.” A moment later he’s back, pouring just a little into each of their mugs, hesitating when he’s poured out drinks for the four of them, looking to Staldar. “I know you’ll say no, but I would feel rude if I didn’t at least offer.”

 

“No, thank you, Yorsashi, but you’re correct,” Staldar declines swiftly. Prith clucks disapprovingly from his spot by the fire.

 

“Now, this isn’t just some bottle he bought at the market, he _made_ it for his team! At least try it, I’ve seen him tending it almost every day for months now,” Prith cries out, gesticulating towards the jar. “Think of it as team bonding, if you must. One drink! Share one drink with us, just this once!”

 

“No, no, don’t feel like you’re obligated to drink!” Yorsashi puts his hands up placatingly. “Like I said, it’s not even going to be particularly good.”

 

“Oh, don’t coddle him, I know he’s a picky son-of-a-bitch, but one drink won’t kill him!” Prith stands, grabbing a fifth mug, taking the jar from Yorsashi and pouring a generous portion. He stomps over to Staldar, holding out the wine. “Maybe you were taught different, but you’re always on about us being brothers in arms, and it's a tradition for brothers in arms to share a drink.” There’s a challenge in Prith’s eyes, a dare. Staldar keeps his face neutral, though the demand irks him.

 

“You just want to get him drunk, you heel,” Krax hisses behind them. “Don’t act like you suddenly care about unity and team relations.”

 

“What, I’m not allowed to make an effort to make him feel included? You’re all acting like I’m asking him to drink _poison_! I just want us to drink together, a sip, a toast, whatever, it’s just a gesture, a symbol.” He turns back to Staldar. “Take this damn cup out of my hand, will you?” Staldar takes the mug, and Prith, satisfied, returns to his spot, picking up his own mug as he goes. “Gods, was that so hard? Drink or don’t, I don’t care anymore. How does the saying go? You can lead a horse to water, but can’t make him drink?”

 

There’s a moment of quiet, everyone looking between Prith and Staldar, and Staldar just wishes the night would end and they could move on. He sighs.

 

“You suggested a toast?”

 

Prith gives a crow of victory, scrambling to his feet, lifting his mug.

 

“ _Yes_! How about a toast to our continued success! May the powers that be stop wasting our valuable time by sending us to the sticks to languish!” And with that, he downs his drink.

 

“Sure, yeah, I’ll drink to that,” Hekkras growls, accepting a mug of his own, knocking it back. Krax nods and drinks. Yorsashi lifts his mug and takes a sip, then makes an unpleasant face. Staldar exhales, wishing he hadn’t agreed to this, and quaffs the drink.

 

And immediately doubles over, coughing roughly, eyes watering. The concoction is syrupy sweet and astringent. It’s one of the worst things he’s ever tasted, he’s certain. Yorsashi hops up to pat the center of his back hard as he gasps for air, while Prith cackles.

 

“Good man! See, that wasn’t so bad!”

 

“It wasn’t great,” Staldar rasps between wet coughs, struggling to regain composure.

 

“Thanks for playing along, Staldar. You didn’t have to do that,” Yorsashi murmurs, smiling apologetically. “As far as first drinks go, this one is less than ideal.”

 

“Wait, wait, you’ve _never_ had a drink before? I thought maybe you’d had a couple of bad nights and simply swore yourself to sobriety afterwards— this is your _first_ drink?” Prith says with disbelief on his face. Staldar glowers at him.

 

“I meant it when I said I don’t imbibe. I’ve never had any interest in it. From what I’ve seen, all it does is dull the senses and turn capable men and women into bumbling messes.” He puts his mug down, but Prith rushes over, looking delighted.

 

“Well, hold on now, this changes everything! You’ve never been drunk before! Surely you’re curious,” Prith says amiably, scooping up his mug and pressing it back into his hands. “No wonder you’re so uptight, you’ve never let loose in the first place.” He grins up at Yorsashi, pointing down to the empty cup. “Pour him another! It’s a special occasion now,” he purrs, slinging an arm over Staldar’s shoulders. Staldar shoves him away, growling.

 

“You’re pushing your luck.”

 

“Aw, hear me out, Major!”

 

“Hear you out? About getting me drunk?”

 

“I think it could be a good thing! And I have a very good reason why, so hear me out,” Prith pleads. Staldar stares him down, but Prith meets his gaze evenly, looking hopeful. Strangely enough, he appears sincere.

 

“Alright, I’ll bite. Why is it a good idea for me to give up my cognizance and coordination while out on assignment? What benefit does this hold for me, while trying to do my job?”

 

“Oh, yes, fat lot of work we’re getting done, going for walks through the empty woods, sitting on our asses. It’s been months, and there’s been no sign of life or even foot-traffic across the border. We’re not on anyone’s trail, and no one is on ours. If there was a safe time to drink, now is probably it.” Prith waves a hand, as if to say ‘look at all the nothingness around us.’ “No danger, no higher ups breathing down our necks, no one to impress or be good examples for. Being a stuffy S.O. is one thing, but things are different now!”

 

“I still have to be a leader. I can’t just ignore that.”

 

“Staldar, we are all grown, venerated soldiers. Give it a rest,” Prith sighs. “Next point of order, this will sound strange, but if you’ve never been drunk before, then you don’t know your own limits, do you? Let me put it another way, with a hypothetical; we get exposed to all sorts of strange situations. If you know what it feels like to be drunk, you can be better prepared to deal with how it feels to be drunk in the future! Not that you’d intentionally get drunk, but I don’t know, if something happens, your drink gets spiked, what-have-you, you won’t be caught off guard. I mean, you’ve sworn off something you don’t even fully understand! Ignorance is the enemy, right?”

 

Staldar opens his mouth to retort, but then cocks his head, furrowing his brow.

 

“I… don’t have a firm argument against that, though I know it’s still bullshit,” Staldar grumbles. “I know you’re just looking for an excuse to keep drinking.”

 

“This isn’t about me!’

 

“It’s always about you, Prith,” Krax sighs across the way. Prith throws a rude gesture at him.

 

“No, I’m being serious! Gods, no one trusts me… All I’m saying is, you’re among, uh, relatively good company, with no major consequences in sight except maybe a little dry mouth and headache come morning. It’s a perfect opportunity to try something new, get a novel and informative experience under your belt.” He pauses. “Aaaand if we drink the whole jar tonight, there won’t be anymore temptation to drink! One night of satiating a harmless little vice and we’ll be on our best behavior, business as usual.”

 

“There it is,” Hekkras says with a chuckle. “I was waiting for it. Begging his father for another sip from the liquor cabinet.”

 

“That was a terrible analogy,” Staldar mutters, shaking his head, though, as he shakes it, he feels a rush of warmth and his sense of balance shifts, feeling slightly light-headed. He puts a hand to his brow, trying to steady himself. “Shit.”

 

“Oh, you’re feeling it already, aren’t you?” Prith says with mischievous glee. “See, it won’t even take much to get a little buzz going, maybe just one more, and I won’t ask for any more. I swear it!” He crosses a finger over his heart, holding his other hand up in a gesture of promise. Staldar throws up his hands, entirely exhausted by the entire conversation at this point.

 

“By the Gods, if I have one more drink, will you please fuck off and leave me be?”

 

“Oh, absolutely!”

 

Staldar sighs.

 

“Then pour me another and get out of my face.”

 

“Yes, sir!”

 

And with that, Prith pours everyone another round. Cups filled, he settles down again, seemingly content, before leaning forward, with a gleam in his eye.

 

“I propose a game.”

 

“Oh no,” Hekkras groans. “This won’t end well.”

 

“What game?” Yorsashi asks cautiously, side-eyeing Staldar with some concern. Staldar ignores this, resting his head on one hand, the other clutching his drink, hesitant to try the makeshift brew again so soon.

 

“We played it as cadets. It’s called ‘never have I ever.’”

 

“I hate this stupid game. You cheat at it.”

 

“You can’t cheat, it’s just a fun little party game!”

 

“Yes you can, and you’re a little shit who targets your questions so you can get secrets out of people.”

 

“You’re no fun.”

 

“This game is no fun.”

 

“Okay, okay, stop. How do you even play,” Krax interrupts.

 

“Alright. We go in a circle, and when it’s your turn, you say the phrase ‘never have I ever’ followed by something you’ve never done before. If anyone else in the circle _has_ done it, they drink,” Prith explains, looking pleased with his own idea. Krax considers, then gives an uncharacteristic smile.

 

“I’ll play.”

 

“Yes! That’s one. Come on, Hekkras, play along, you’ve always got a few interesting ones in you.”

 

“... Alright. I’m game.”

 

“Yorsashi?”

 

“Sure, why not!”

 

Everyone looks to Staldar.

 

“... In for a penny, in for a pound,” he sighs.

 

“Oh, you’ve made my night! I’ll start us off; never have I ever slept with a cadet— and I don’t mean _as_ a cadet!”

 

Hekkras sighs and drinks alone.

 

“Ew. Recently?”

 

“No, not fucking recently!”

 

“But you weren’t a cadet at the time?”

 

“No. See, this is why I hate playing with you, it turns into ‘never have I ever and also if you have, we have to talk about it at length.’”

 

“Sheesh, I was just curious.” He looks to Staldar, noticing he had not taken a drink. “Alright, you can go next,” Prith announces, gesturing to Krax.

 

“Gladly.” Krax says, looking slyly at Prith. “Never have I ever gotten off thinking of one or more of my teammates.”

 

There’s a beat of quiet before Prith and Hekkras both drink, Yorsashi shyly following suit, face darkening. Staldar scoffs.

 

“Is this the nature of this game? I’m not interested if the entire game is going to be this crude.”

 

“Well, sex is a fun topic, but it’s not _all_ about sex. Your turn, Sashimi,” Prith replies, and Yorsashi considers for a moment.

 

“Well… Never have I ever cast a spell?” He tries, giving Staldar a smarmy little smile. Prith groans.

 

“Oh, come on, you can pick a better one than that, that’s far too easy.”

 

“Alright, alright, um… Never have I ever been struck by an arrow!”

 

Staldar is the only one to drink, to everyone’s surprise, Yorsashi looking particularly alarmed.

 

“No shit?” Hekkras asks, leaning forward. “Where?”

 

“Right shoulder. The head of it stuck out the other side. I pulled it out, myself.”

 

“Goddamn,” Hekkras breathes, shaking his head, leaning back. “Can’t believe it didn’t scar.”

 

“Oh, it did. It’s hard to tell, but there’s two little marks on either side. The scales there hide it pretty well.”

 

“Alright, alright, your turn, Staldar,” Prith sing-songs, looking excited. Staldar frowns, realizing he hadn’t thought of anything to ask yet.

 

“Never have I ever… consumed an illicit substance.”

 

Prith, Hekkras, and Krax drink, much to Krax’s dismay.

 

“Prith and Hekkras I knew, but you, Krax?” Staldar questions, and Krax shrugs.

 

“I work with said illicit substances. Sometimes, my research requires first-hand knowledge.”

 

“My turn,” Hekkras rumbles, giving Prith a predatory smile. “Krax had a good one earlier, and I have a follow-up. Never have I ever gotten off while thinking about _Staldar Drachenhearth_ —”

 

“Alright, no, none of that,” Staldar interrupts, standing up, trying not to sway. “No specifics! Nothing that will compromise our working relationships! That’s too far!”

 

“Oh, come on, it’s all in good fun! And let’s be real, you’re a tall drink of water. Ice water, maybe, but still,” Prith says dismissively, taking a swig. “And Yorsashi, if you don’t drink right now, I’m calling bullshit,” Prith accuses, and Yorsashi flinches, and tentatively takes a sip, blushing even harder.

 

“Happy?” He quips back at Prith, earning a lascivious grin.

 

“Oh, very.”

 

Staldar blinks at Yorsashi for a moment, noting how he avoids his eye before settling back down, feeling very strange. His vision swims a little more and more with each passing minute.

 

The game continues, and everyone but Staldar drinks at least once more, Prith and Hekkras drinking a bit more than everyone else. Prith starts getting impatient when Staldar doesn’t drink, narrowing his eyes at him.

 

“Hmph. Never have I ever sharpened a blade.” Staldar, Yorsashi, and Krax drink.

 

“That one was too easy by your standards,” says Hekkras.

 

“I know, but it was annoying me that Staldar hadn’t had a drink for an entire round,” Prith sighs.

 

“Well, here’s one,” Krax begins. “Never have I ever killed a man with my teeth.”

 

Everyone blinks in confusion, but Staldar shakes his head and drinks, getting gasps from Hekkras and Prith.

 

“How did you know that?” Staldar asks, glaring at Krax. “Only Yorsashi and the rest of that company knew about that incident.”

 

“Rumors. Interesting to have it confirmed, however,” Krax murmurs, tracing a finger around the edge of his mug. “You have a reputation. It’s difficult to sort fact from fiction, sometimes.”

 

“Well, now you know, I’ve crushed a man’s windpipe in my jaws.” Staldar grumbles bitterly. “Congratulations.”

 

There’s a moment of hush, Yorsashi giving Staldar a sympathetic look before clearing his throat.

 

“Never have I ever… danced at a ball, or something similar.”

 

Prith drinks, and to everyone’s surprise, Staldar drinks again.

 

“Oh, really? I didn’t know that you knew how to dance!” Yorsashi says cheerfully.

 

“I was taught by a… colleague, while I was an S.O. I received regular invitations to events that involved dancing.”

 

“Did you fuck said ‘colleague?’ You said it with a strange inflection,” Prith interjects. Staldar shakes his head.

 

“Why don’t you ask when it’s your turn.”

 

“ _Never have I ever fucked my colleague while I was an S.O.!_ ” Prith hisses at him, glaring at him. Staldar doesn’t drink, giving him a deadpan look. “Dammit!”

 

“You skipped me, asshole,” Hekkras growls.

 

The game continues, words beginning to slur, everyone’s posture slouching. Staldar goes a while without drinking again, Krax close behind, Yorsashi, Prith, and Hekkras growing steadily drunker and drunker. Despite his early misgivings, he finds himself relaxing, starting to laugh along with the others as they rehash embarrassing stories. Yorsashi accidentally leans into him from time to time, and Staldar doesn’t really mind, not feeling particularly stable himself.

 

“Gods, we’ve got to start saying things to get Drachenhearth drinking again,” Prith groans from where he’s sprawled out. “Hells, uh, never have I ever _fucked_!”

 

Everyone drinks except Staldar, and Prith chokes as he drinks, pointing at Staldar.

 

“I don’t believe you!”

 

“Why in the hells would I lie?” Staldar dismisses, turning his head.

 

“No, fuck off, you’ve _never_ fucked with anyone? Not even a goddamn reach around? Are you kidding me?”

 

“I don’t believe this requires any elaboration, Prith,” Staldar grinds out. “I didn’t drink. Leave it at that.”

 

“Fine, fine, I get it, you’re a virgin, what is there to explain, I hear ya,” Prith sighs. “I guess that explains a lot.”

 

“I have an interesting one,” Krax provides. “Never have I ever received non-judicial punishment,” Prith begins to raise his drink with a groan, “from someone other than Staldar.” Prith’s drink drops back down.

 

Staldar drinks, deeply. His cup is empty again.

 

Everyone sits up, intrigued.

 

“Wait, really? Mister goody-two-shoes himself? Stickler of sticklers, enforcer-of-protocol? What did you do, didn’t kiss your S.O.’s ass just right?” Prith snickers to himself.

 

“I spoke out of turn,” Staldar says simply, with a shrug.

 

“Uh, you must have said something really awful to deserve _non-judicial punishment_ , Tiamat’s tits. What did you say?”

 

“I answered a rhetorical question.”

 

“... What?” Everyone gives him odd looks, and he frowns, trying to remember the order of events.

 

“He asked a question— something I don’t remember anymore, it must have been over fifteen years ago now— and I answered it. I spoke out of turn, so he punished me for it.” Staldar continues, feeling everyone’s looks grow more alarmed.

 

“And what was the punishment for that?” Hekkras asks, face stern and dark. Staldar swallows, suddenly nervous. What in the hells had happened to the mood? Why was this suddenly so serious?

 

“I mean, I got a few lashes for it, but he was a strict S.O., maybe even more than I was,” Staldar says with a rueful laugh, but is met with quiet.

 

“... Lashes? Staldar?” Yorsashi’s voice carries up to him, and he turns, and he sees Yorsashi’s eyes staring, wide and sad. “W-what do you mean by that?”

 

“How else could I mean it? You mean to say you never received a lashing for your poor behavior?”

 

“The worst I’ve ever gotten was a formal reprimand,” Yorsashi says quietly. “And I definitely did more than accidentally answer a question out of turn, Staldar.”

 

“Uh, likewise,” Hekkras adds. “Hells, I was a shit cadet and I never received more than a slap on the wrist.”

 

“How many lashes? You said a few? How many is ‘a few’?” Krax asks, looking at him intensely. Staldar suddenly feels far too hot, sick to his stomach. He feels an itch across his back, remembers the string of the riding crop across his scales.

 

“I, uh, I don’t remember. N-not very many,” He murmurs, looking away from them all. “They didn’t even break skin, if I remember correctly. The riding crop wasn’t even the worst part.”

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, okay, the _riding crop_ wasn’t even the _worst_ part? You’re telling me there’s a _worse part than being beat with the riding crop_?” Prith speaks up, voice rising. Staldar stands, head-spinning, hands shaking, and he turns away from their little circle, huffing.

 

“Alright, enough, you’re all over-reax— _reacting_ to this, I made a mistake, he made an example of me, why is that such a big o-ordeal. Can we please—”

 

“Staldar, what else happened? What was worse than the riding crop?” Staldar realizes Yorsashi is at his side, placing a worried hand on his elbow. Staldar growls and pulls away.

 

“Well, now I don’t feel as though I’m at lib— liberty to say if this is how you’re going to take it.”

 

“Staldar, please, it’s just… we just want to know what you mean,” Yorsashi says softly, trying to lead him back to the circle. Staldar swallows again, feeling far too dizzy and ineloquent to be discussing this.

 

“Well, he made the punishment fit the mistake, so, uh, he had another pair of cadets, um, wrap my mouth, since ‘s difficult to gag a dragonborn the usual way. S-so, my mouth is tied shut, and he tells me to do push ups.” Staldar shrugs again. “The crop was just to make sure I’d keep doing push ups until he said I was done.”

 

Staldar watches for a moment as the other three look between one another, and Yorsashi’s eyes start to fill with tears as he looks up at Staldar.

 

“Oh my Gods, Staldar… Is that where that little nick, right on one of your face scales came from? The one in the middle?” His voice is watery, but he doesn’t quite cry, not yet. Staldar sighs.

 

“Yes. I had to cut the ties off myself. The other cadets couldn’t do it in time.”

 

“In time for what?”

 

Gods, Staldar just wishes all the questions would stop. What the hells do they even care? Why did they all keep plucking at this one thread? Out of all the things everyone had said that night?

 

“I— I couldn’t breathe all that well with my mouth tied, so doing all those pushups made me sick, alright?” Staldar’s voice rises and he shakes of Yorsashi, pacing around the fire. “I sicked up while my mouth was still tied! Look, i-it wasn’t a big deal, but can you see why I wouldn’t want to talk about it? I vomited in my mouth in front of everyone, it’s not exactly my finest moment!” He pants out, agitation growing.

 

“Staldar,” Krax says in hushed tone. “Just to be sure I’ve got my facts straight, your Senior Officer had other cadets tie your mouth shut, very tightly apparently, and then he asked you to do perform drills while he whipped you with a crop? And, when you became overworked, you were… ill? With your mouth still bound shut?”

 

Staldar’s heart is pounding in his ears, and his stomach does a flip in his stomach.

 

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Staldar says, voice flat, firm. “I-I’m done, I’m done talking about this, I—,” he’s dizzy, he’s so dizzy, and his mouth is watering, he can’t get enough air.

 

He turns and stumbles a few paces, leaning against a tree, and heaves, vomiting into the brush.

 

And then he collapses.

**…**

 

“So, we’re agreed, if he doesn’t remember what we’ve discussed tonight, we’re not to bring it up with him again. Right?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Mmhmm.”

 

“Y-yes.”

 

“Alright, that’s settled then,” Prith sighs. “Yorsashi, what’s wrong, why are you still crying? I know you’re drunk but come on, he’ll be alright.”

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s just,” Yorsashi sniffles, wiping his nose miserably. “I-It just explains so much ab-bout when I first met h-him. He was s-so quiet, he wouldn’t speak to a-a- _anyone_ unless they spoke f-first. He nuh-never smiled, either, never laughed, not for a while.” He hiccoughs into his drink. “S-sometimes I’d get a laugh out of him, a little one, and then he wuh-would quickly stop, like someone had t-told him to be quiet. I can’t stop thinking about it, now, how quiet he was,” Yorsashi whimpers, and Prith sighs again, coming to sit by him, giving him a comforting pat.

 

“Yorsashi, you can’t treat him any differently now that you know this. It’ll piss him off. He obviously never meant for us to know in the first place. You have to act like everything is okay, like you don’t know about it. Can you do that?”

 

Yorsashi wipes his face again.

 

“I… Maybe. Y-yes, I think so. It’s just. All so wrong,” he murmurs. “I hate lying to him, and I’m pissed off that he went through that all alone, and never told anyone.”

 

“Just… get some rest. Watch over him. We’ll handle the rest of the watch. More or less,” Krax suggests. Yorsashi hesitates, then nods, retiring to his and Staldar’s shared tent.

 

No one except Staldar gets much sleep that night.

**…**

Staldar wakes with a merciless headache, mouth desert-dry and stomach roiling, but with nothing to expel.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he chokes out, surprised when his voice is practically gone, throat stinging.

 

“Oh, you’re up,” Yorsashi says quietly, keeping his voice down. “Do you… remember what happened last night?”

 

“I feel like I hit my head.” He reaches up to feel around his head. “Fuck, did I hit my head? Do I have a concussion?“

 

“Er, yeah, you, um, you hit your head kinda hard last night. It knocked you out pretty good. Krax might have something for the pain, I can ask him.” Yorsashi starts to stand, but pauses when Staldar tries to sit up, wincing. “Oh, relax, relax, we’ve got everything under control! I’ll get Krax, you just wait here.”

 

Staldar reluctantly nods and lays back down, covering his face.

 

He just wants to sleep through the rest of this terrible assignment.

 


	16. Snowdrift

* * *

**_“Snowdrift”_ **

* * *

 

  
  


Yorsashi wakes up alone.

 

Which is concerning, as the very first of morning’s light begins to filter through the canvas of the tent, bedroll still mussed beside him. He and Staldar had had watch earlier in the night; why would he get up for the day without waking Yorsashi? He blinks blearily, in the partial gloom, shuffling around to pull his winter gear on.

 

Kitted up, he leaves the tent, greeted by a shivering Hekkras and Krax, huddled by the fire. Fresh snow had fallen since he’d gone to bed, a few fresh inches covering the landscape. Before he can say anything, Hekkras beats him to the punch.

 

“I don’t know what he’s doing. If you want to find him, follow the tracks,” he grumbles, jerking a thumb towards a line of perfect prints in the snow, meandering into the forest. “Weird ass snow dragon bullshit… Probably fucking a snowman or some shit...”

 

Yorsashi rolls his eyes before curiously following the footsteps deeper into the trees. Instead of trudging through the snow, he steps in the imprints of impacted snow, though Staldar’s gait is much longer than his own. He grows worried, becoming shocked at the distance he travels before seeing any sign of Staldar, guessing that they must be almost a quarter of a mile out. Even then, he doesn’t see Staldar right away, but instead his winter cloak hung from a low tree branch. He rushes over and sees his gloves and foot coverings have been discarded as well.

 

Yorsashi continues to follow the tracks, picking up the pace, when finally he sees a clearing ahead, and then Staldar, who sits cross legged in the middle atop his gambeson, nothing but his thick winter tunic and leggings to protect him from the elements. Yorsashi almost calls out to him, starting forward, but he stops, realizing just how quiet the forest is this far from camp. It feels nearly sacrilege to disturb the serenity of the moment.

 

He pads over carefully, only the soft crunch of snow giving his presence away. Staldar perks up at the sound, turning and blinking as if pulled from a stupor, blinking.

 

“You're up… What are you doing so far out? Are you not cold?”

 

“I could ask you the same thing.” Yorsashi stops by him, looking all around the clearing. 

 

Regardless of his feelings towards snow, the sight is beautiful, ethereal even. White-dusted evergreen branches, weighted with shining ice and powdery snow, cut shafts of pale daylight, long blue shadows stretching across the ground. Icicles catch the soft rays and the fresh layer of snow glitters. He wishes, in that moment, for a way to preserve the panorama, immortalize the delicate, fleeting snowy landscape.

 

Then he could enjoy it without the cold biting at his poor extremities. He looks down at Staldar again, who has made no move to stand or leave.

 

“Aren’t you worried your gambeson will get wet?”

 

“It’s well insulated, and I’d rather it be wet than my trousers.”

 

“Are you truly not cold, without your cloak and what-not?” Yorsashi sits carefully next to him, wrapped in his own long mantle.

 

“Well… I can certainly that it is cold out. Too long without the added layers, or if it were a bit colder, I’d likely start to grow uncomfortable and begin shivering. But I find this weather rather ideal.” He sighs, breath visible in the frigid air. “I wish the winter were longer.”

 

“So… you’re out here just enjoying the weather? At the crack of dawn?” Yorsashi looks pointedly at him, inquisitive. Staldar’s expression becomes clouded, brow furrowing.

 

“I woke up from a dream.”

 

Yorsashi sits up at this, surprised.

 

“A dream? Do you remember anything about it?”

 

“Yes, actually,” Staldar says softly. “Some of it is unclear now. But I remember the landscape. There was snow, but not like here. Deep snow, hard and icy. There were no trees. It was very… glacial. Barren. Except, there was a dragon. A massive white dragon. I watched it hunt. I don’t really remember what the prey was.” Staldar pauses, suddenly lost in reverie.

 

“Was that all?”

 

“No. No, it, ah, it looked up and saw me. It’s mouth was still bloody from the kill. It… It lunged at me, and that’s when I woke up.” Staldar shudders, but not from the cold.

 

“Oh, that sounds frightening,” Yorsashi murmurs, bumping shoulders with Staldar in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. Staldar hums thoughtfully.

 

“Perhaps a little. I couldn’t fall back asleep, after, and we would all be waking soon either way, so I took a walk, thought it would help clear my head.” There’s a moment of comfortable silence, even the sounds of their breaths seemingly absorbed by the blanket of white, a profound kind of hush. Then Staldar stretches, twisting one way and the other with a grunt, before standing, picking up his gambeson as he rises. “Let’s head back. I can tell you’re freezing,” he smiles softly, offering a hand to the green dragonborn, who takes it gratefully. Staldar’s gloveless hand is unexpectedly warm.

 

They start to walk back, Staldar pulling all of his discarded layers back on as they go, Yorsashi still following in his larger footprints carefully.

 

“Did it help? Coming out here?” Yorsashi asks, trailing behind. Staldar slows, looking back.

 

“... I think so, yes. I like the quiet.” Staldar turns to look ahead once more. “It makes me wish we didn’t have to go back to the city.”

 

“... I know what you mean,” Yorsashi mumbles. And he really does. Missions like these, camping together, out in the thick of the forest, the rest of the world seems so far away. Secluded, left (for the most part) to their own devices, he could almost pretend that there were no barracks waiting for them, no training and paperwork and orders. But they have a task. And when the task is done, they return.

 

When they reach camp, Prith is up and about, and there’s a kettle over the fire, the smell of fresh coffee wafting up. The others look up as they come through the trees, Prith nearly shouting across the way.

 

“Oh, good! We were starting to worry about you two, and by ‘worry,’ I mean ‘wonder if you two had finally decided to find more entertaining ways to stay warm,’” Prith crows, pouring two mugs of the steaming brew. Staldar takes one of the proffered mugs with a snort.

 

“I wish you would give it a rest.”

 

“Never,” Prith purrs, letting his fingers brush against Staldar’s a little too long. Staldar bats him away with a disgruntled sound.

 

Yorsashi shakes his head in amusement, taking his own mug gratefully.

 

Despite the cold, he really wishes they didn’t have to return to the city.

* * *

 


	17. The Harder You Fall

* * *

**_“The Harder You Fall”_ **

* * *

 

  
  


The other marksman is just a little faster.

 

Yorsashi doesn’t make a sound as a bolt embeds itself in his stomach. He just collapses on himself, falling backwards off of some dubious scaffolding and into bags of forgotten grain, piled haphazardly below. The echoing ‘ _ whump’  _ around the warehouse is the only thing that alerts the rest that he’s even hurt, Staldar chancing a glance back only to see a violent puff of dust rising from the mound of burlap. But he can’t react, can’t let the strike of fear in his heart take hold, turning back just in time to block, swords clashing.

 

In this instance, their adversaries are hardly a match, not organized and skilled enough, and before long, they are subdued. The moment Staldar assesses that there are no more immediate threats and the makeshift lab secured, he jogs over to the grain bags, and inhales sharply, scrambling across the pile of shifting seed and grist.

 

“ _ Yorsashi--! _ ” The smaller dragonborn’s normally vivacious green is ashen, pallid as his blood wells up from the bolt’s puncture, dripping down his sides. He shivers, breathing shallow and quick, one hand carefully holding the wound as much as he can without causing himself more pain. “Krax, come here,  _ now!  _ Bring a kit!” Staldar kneels down and gently presses his hand over Yorsashi’s, ignoring the way he hisses and the slick warmth of blood that soaks into his leather glove. With the other hand he helps Yorsashi sit up a little.

 

“ _ Gods _ , this... really hurts,” Yorsashi whimpers. “Y-you told me you pulled an arrow from your sh-shoulder once, b-but I can barely touch it, it h-hurts so much.” He tries to laugh, smiling wanly, but it comes out as more of a sob, tears starting to form in his eyes.

 

“No, no, this isn’t comparable, Yorsashi, this is very different,” Staldar says hastily, hushed. “I’d be afraid to pull this out, too, not without some help.”

 

“Oh no,” Krax hisses, trying not to slip as he nears.

 

“Tell me you’ve got something for him, a potion, anything.”

 

“Not while the bolt is still stuck. It needs to come out first, or anything I give him is useless.” Krax rolls out a medical pack, pulling a bundle of gauze out. “Lift your hands so I can compress the wound.”

 

“So, we need to pull the bolt out?”

 

“Yes, then quickly have him drink a potion. It won’t take, otherwise.” Krax presses down around the shaft of the bolt, gauze absorbing blood quickly. Yorsashi lets out a pained sound, crying in earnest now.

 

“J-just do it, just pull it out then,” he gasps. “Let’s g-get it over with.” His breathing is far to fast, bordering on hyperventilating.

 

“Wait, wait, not like this, Krax, he’s in shock, and if we pull that out as-is, I don’t think even a potion will heal him in time,” Staldar interjects, trying not to let the panic he feels inside show. “He needs an anaesthetic, something to dull the pain, get his heart and breathing to slow.” Krax growls in frustration.

 

“I don’t think I have anything strong enough. His condition is going to deteriorate even faster if we try to move him to get him to the infirmary. The bolt might shift, hit something vital if he moves too much, if it gets jostled.” Krax starts to rummage around the medical kit, muttering to himself. “They really need to send healers with us, this is fucking ridiculous…”

 

“Maybe you don’t have anything, but this is a drug bust, darlings! These fools have just about anything and everything you could ever want, take your pick: ether, opiates, aetherum, even a tiny stash of blackblood,” Prith sing-songs, tossing a bottle to Staldar. “That’s ether.”

 

“Give it here, hold the wound while I prepare it,” Krax commands. Staldar passes the bottle, replacing Krax’s hand with his own again. Yorsashi is still breathing too quickly for his comfort, can feel his frantic pulse under his hands.

 

“Here, hold on, and try to breathe with me. Can you do that?” Staldar says low and calm to Yorsashi. His eyes are bleary with pain and fear, but they focus on Staldar, and he nods meekly, adjusting, one arm over his shoulders (Staldar ignores the wetness of his hand on his neck, and the smell of iron), the other tightly gripping the wrist of the hand holding his wound. Staldar breathes in, holding it, before slowly letting it out, and Yorsashi mirrors him. They repeat a few times, and Staldar feels his heart slow, just a little, just enough not to be so worrisome, and Krax has a another handful of gauze, lightly dampened with ether, a potion bottle already opened, kit at the ready.

 

“I don’t want him unconscious, but this should ease the pain. I’ll need to hold this over your nose, and you need to breathe in deep. It will take some time.” He holds the cloth up. “Ready?” Yorsashi nods, and Krax holds it firmly to his face. Yorsashi breathes in, again, again, and again. It takes a few minutes, and they begin to worry as he grows paler and paler, but then Staldar feels his grip slacken, growing limp, head lolling back against his shoulder. Then, surprisingly, he lets out a muffled giggle, and Krax takes that as the signal to take the ether away. “Alright?”

 

“I… haven’t felt like this in a loooong time…” Yorsashi slurs. “I got  _ ss _ so drunk, didn’ mean to, but…” His mumbles become less coherent, a hybrid mess of draconic and common. Krax sighs.

 

“Alright, lets do this quickly. I can hold the wound, and feed him the potion, but someone else will need to remove the bolt.”

 

“I can--,” Staldar starts, but Yorsashi squeezes his wrist again.

 

“ _ Nnn _ no, i _ ssss _ still going t’ hurt, can tell, and I wan’--,” Yorsashi whimpers again, mumbling a few words in draconic, but they don’t make much sense, a half-formed thought. Staldar thinks he understands, regardless, shifting to hold Yorsashi’s hand.

 

“It’s alright, it’s alright. I’ve got you. You can squeeze if it hurts.” Yorsashi squeezes his hand gratefully, calming.

 

“Oh, Gods, I hate blood, but I can do it if you tell me how,” Prith complains, kneeling down next to Yorsashi by Krax.

 

“Just pull firmly and steadily straight up, don’t hesitate or stop once you start. Don’t try to yank it out, it’s too deep, and you’ll do more harm than good that way. You want it to come right back out the path it’s made for itself, alright?” Prith nods as Krax rattles everything off, placing his hands gently on the bit of bolt protruding up.

 

“Say when, Sashimi,” Prith sighs. Yorsashi swallows, leaning back against Staldar, closing his eyes.

 

“W-whe-- _ hnn--!”  _ It only takes seconds, but every second leaves Yorsashi gasping, squeezing Staldar’s hand like a vice, trying not to squirm or scrabble too much, fresh tears pouring. But the moment the bolt is out, Prith tosses it away, Krax guides the potion to Yorsashi’s mouth, and he drinks, shuddering. Soon, he’s relaxed again, color returning back to his face, though his eyes are still dilated, half-lidded under the effects of the drug. Krax peels back as much of the armor and linen as he can to check the site of the wound.

 

“Seems to have healed fine. No lasting marks. Still feeling any pain, Yorsashi?” Yorsashi just shakes his head, turning to press his tear-stained face to the cold steel of Staldar’s armor. “Good. Prith, did you send a message for the--”

 

“Of course I did, why would you even ask?” Prith scoffs, dusting himself off as he rises. “I’m going to help Hekkras clean some of this up before the rest come.”

 

“Prith, if I find out you’ve taken any substances off the premises--,” Staldar growls, but Prith laughs.

 

“Oh, don’t worry, you won’t,” he grins, sauntering away.

 

Krax cleans himself and Yorsashi up as much as possible, which is very little, but better than nothing. Yorsashi still clings, unwilling to let go, so Staldar stays put, holding him.

 

“How long will the ether last?”

 

“Not much longer now, could be a few minutes, or half an hour. Inhalants never last particularly long, not without some added risk.” Krax explains, rolling up his kit. “I’ll go help them, and keep an eye on Prith.” Staldar nods as Krax gets up to leave, then turns his attention back to Yorsashi.

 

“Can you stand?”

 

“Mm… Still dizzy…” Yorsashi murmurs, sitting up, clearly woozy, and Staldar hushes him.

 

“It’s alright, you don’t have to get up just now. I just thought you might like off of this pile of… I’m not even sure, old, musty wheat?”

 

“R-right. I think I just… wanna rest.”

 

“Back up will be here to collect this mess, and we’ll be able to go back to the barracks and recover properly,” Staldar reassures, sitting back with him. “Other than dizzy and tired, how are you feeling?”

 

“A bit numb. Floaty. Kinda like the night I drank all that wine, and you had to help me get to bed. I was so sick after, you helped me then too,” Yorsashi’s voice is small, slurring a little less, but breathy, exhausted. “You always help me.”

 

“We’re a team. We’re supposed to help each other,” Staldar replies, but Yorsashi shakes his head.

 

“ _ You _ always help me. It’s always you.” Yorsashi levers himself up, pulling up to rest his head on Staldar’s shoulder. “S-sorry, I’m rambling, but-- Thank you.”

 

Staldar is speechless for a moment, before he hugs back, reminded of the first time Yorsashi had ever hugged him, bruised and battered, but smiling and brilliant and ready to face the world again.  _ ‘Gods, don’t let this ever change him.’ _

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

Staldar ends up having to carrying him out to the awaiting carts, Yorsashi profusely slurring out little apologies, for bleeding on him, for being a burden. Staldar doesn’t tell him that he’d gladly carry him any distance, if it meant he could stay near to him.

* * *

 


	18. Ambush

* * *

**_“Ambush”_ **

* * *

 

  
  


Staldar hates the rainy season. The constant drizzle makes everything miserable. It throws off his entire routine; more often than not, he can’t perform his usual drills and exercises. The humidity makes his armor and gambeson feel heavy and damp, clinging and insulating in the worst way. And, as seemingly some kind of cruel, sick joke, they are  _ always _ out on assignment in the wilds for these months.

 

Keeping the camp dry is an uphill battle. The fire is a lost cause, with no dry kindling readily available, and all attempts shortly undone by the trickle. They use special tarps over the tents and provisions, try to keep everything off the damp, muddy ground. Some meager magic helps, Prith does a fair job of keeping important things clean and dry, but it’s an exercise in futility.

 

Staldar, quite notably, becomes somber around this time of year. Naturally introverted, sometimes reclusive, he only speaks up when addressed, only gives basic orders and commands as necessary. Yorsashi is well acquainted with this idiosyncrasy, and he knows not to push or pry, not that Staldar could explain it either way. He himself doesn’t fully understand it. The rain isn’t the cause so much as backdrop to his pensive mood. How could he possibly put into words the yawning, internal rift that seemed to open up, the vaguest memories, foggy, wet, like the rest of Kyla, that would drift up and press at him like webbing, clinging, begging for his attention, only to dissolve at his touch?

 

Not that there aren’t plenty of unpleasant memories that nag with startling clarity. It was the same time of year when he joined the guard’s ranks.

 

While the skies remain cloudy, the rain does stop for some time. And Staldar is restless from waiting under tarps and in tents to stay dry, so he decides to stretch his legs and do something useful at the same time.

 

“Hm? On your own? Are you sure?” Yorsashi looks up, tilting his head inquisitively.

 

“I need to move. I also hope to perhaps find some wood or tinder spared of the rains. It looks as though the rain will hold off just enough for us to have some fire tonight.”

 

“Very well. I trust your judgement. Be safe.”

 

“Of course. I won’t go more than… eight hundred meters out, straight north. Won’t be gone longer than an hour, less even.”

 

Staldar does, in fact, find dry wood in a very fortunately formed copse. He breaks fallen limbs and branches down to size, ties his find into a tidy bundle, carrying it under one arm. He takes his time walking back. Though the rain is unbearable, the stillness and the freshness of the air directly after is not just a reprieve, but pleasant. His head feels clearer than it has in days.

 

He looks towards camp once he reaches a clearing and is confused to see a thin, wispy smokestack rising. It’s very small, but still unmistakably campfire smoke.  _ “Did they manage to find dry wood as well? Peculiar.” _

 

When he approaches camp at his predicted time, what he finds is disturbing.

 

First, from a ways off, he cannot make out any of his compatriots figures moving about the camp as they normally would at this hour. His hackles rise, and he treads lightly into camp, tense, peering all around. They are gone. Not in the tents. But there’s no sign of struggle either. The fire that had apparently briefly burned had since been kicked out. He scents the air, and finds it oddly… sweet? He has no idea what magic or chemicals could give off such a pungently sweet smell. He softly drops his bundle, and listens intently, making no noise of his own. Then he hears it, a rustle, just a few feet out from camp. A magical flame grows in his hand as he whispers in draconic.

 

“ _ SURPRI-- _ ”

 

A few things happen all at once.

 

The rest of the Fangs suddenly leap out from behind the trees, Prith producing some small sparks and confetti from his fingertips. Staldar tries to stop the spout of flames with a shocked shout, but it’s too late, so he swings his arm up, flames arcing upward. Everyone flinches, Hekkras ducks with a cry, flattening himself to the ground, right in the path of the stream of fire. He is luckily not hit by the flames but the fire chews at a branch briefly before sizzling out. The weakened branch creaks, snapping under its own weight, and lands squarely on Hekkras’s head right as he moves to stand. It makes a surprising sound, somewhere between a ‘ _ thump’  _ and a ‘ _ donk _ .’ He falls back to the ground, dazed.

 

There’s a beat of silence before Prith bursts into hysterical laughter. Krax puts a weary hand over his face. Yorsashi watches this all in horror, a hand over his mouth.

 

Staldar watches them all with wild eyes, panting, hand faintly smoking. Finally, speech returns to Staldar.

 

“What the  _ fuck _ do you think you are all  _ doing _ ?!” Yorsashi is startled back into the present, and Staldar is very confused by his guilty expression.

 

“Major, I’m  _ so  _ sorry, that was not our--  _ my _ intention-- I realize now how foolish that was, especially out here, but--” Yorsashi, uncharacteristically, begins to babble, voice plaintive. Staldar tries to follow what is being said, but can make nothing of the disjointed apology.

 

“Major--,” Staldar tries to break through his rambling, to no avail. “Major Saldonas!” Yorsashi falls quiet. “Explain. Slowly, if you will.” Yorsashi nods, wringing his hands.

 

“First, I ask you not to place any of the blame on the others. This was all my idea and I roped them into it.” Then he looks away, embarrassed. “I had… planned this a bit before we were put on assignment. I was hoping we could have done this properly, at the barracks, but then we were called away.”

 

“And what is ‘this’ exactly?”

 

Yorsashi goes very quiet.

 

“... A surprise birthday party…”

 

From the outside, everyone can practically see the cogs in Staldar’s head stop turning. His face goes blank. Then his brow furrows, as much as it can.

 

“A birthday party?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“... Why?”

 

“W-well, I understand that this is a strange time of year for you, and you told me once that your birthday is today. I thought, maybe, if we had a little celebration…” Yorsashi shakes his head. “Forgive me. I see now that this was childish.”

 

Before Staldar can reply, Krax coughs softly, stepping forward.

 

“If I may, Yorsashi was simply trying to boost morale. Between the weather and the sedentary nature of our current mission, we all found Yorsashi’s idea to be an agreeable change of pace. While the methodology was, perhaps, flawed, the intentions were well-meant. You were even gone just long enough to make a cake.” Krax moves over to the fire pit, pulling the lid off a pot snuggled in the embers. Sure enough, there is a very plain, but delicious smelling cake filling it, perfectly golden brown. “Major Saldonas is rather resourceful.” Yorsashi waves a hand, looking thoroughly embarrassed.

 

“H-hardly! A basic cake is nothing special, even without a fully stocked kitchen.”

 

Staldar’s chest and throat tighten for a moment, almost to the point of pain, and he really doesn’t understand what it is he’s feeling, but he exhales slowly and the tension releases with it.

 

“I… don’t know what to say.”

 

Prith, recovered from his laughing fit and having helped Hekkras out from under the charred branch, speaks up.

 

“Just get the lecture about taking our jobs seriously out of the way, then say ‘thanks for the cake’ and we all eat and then you have make-up sex or birthday sex-- whatever suits you-- can we  _ please _ just eat and get a  _ real  _ fire going already!”

 

“I wish you would keep such crude remarks to yourself,” Staldar growls half-heartedly. “But I don’t believe there’s any need for a lecture. This mission is punishment enough, it seems. Let’s just… enjoy some cake, I suppose.” And he snorts even as he says it, shaking his head, and a strange sort hysteric, giddy feeling wells up at the absolute preposterousness of the situation. A smirk plays at the edges of his mouth.

 

“Gods, that’s almost a smile. Play your cards right, he might even throw you a bone tonight, ‘Sashi,” Prith goads, sliding between them to rub shoulders like an over-familiar cat. “Of course, if he won’t accept your gift, I’m a fan of early birthday presents. I’ve always loved unwrapping them.”

 

Yorsashi rolls his eyes and pushes Prith away.

 

“You’re incorrigible.”

 

“That’s a strange way to pronounce irresistible. But whatever, cake!”

 

The cake is very good.

 

Hekkras gets two generously sized pieces as apology for the minor injury.

 

The rain starts up again late that night.

* * *

 


	19. Altered States

* * *

**_“Altered States”_ **

* * *

 

  
  


“Aaaaand one very, very suspicious looking requisitions parcel for our equally suspicious and dark apothicaire.” Prith unceremoniously drops a carefully marked and wrapped package onto the table in front of Krax.

 

“Careful, you  _ ponce.  _ Those are highly volatile materials,” Krax hisses out, very gently picking up the packet, about the size and shape of a small book, checking it over thoroughly. “If anything happened to this, I doubt they’d ever let me request such a quantity again, if at all. And leaks could have… other consequences...”

 

“Oh, oh, don’t tell me. It’s a bundle of dried roots from the nth circle of Hell that, when consumed, turns the consumer completely inside-out,” Prith says with a gleeful sort of morbidity, gesticulating and miming the action of turning inside-out dramatically. “Or, it’s a very rare fungus carefully extracted from between the toes of a basilisk that, when powdered and blown into the eyes of an unsuspecting victim, melts their eyes out of their head.”

 

Staldar pushes is plate away with a long sigh. It was going to be one of  _ those _ days, apparently.

 

“ _ Tch _ , you have a very vivid imagination, if not excessive. No, this is a much subtler substance, but highly regulated and illegal outside of our purview. I won’t bore you with the details, but in its raw state, as I have requested it, it has a fascinating effect on the body. For one, it’s typically not lethal, not unless an absurd amount is ingested. But even small doses can cause the heart to beat almost thrice its normal pace, if not more. In humans and elves, whose hearts beat at roughly sixty beats per minute, this would be just under two- _ hundred _ beats per minute. That alone has a myriad of side-effects, shortness of breath, sweating, fainting. It is also intensely psychoactive, heightening the senses, causing vivid hallucinations. The experience has been reported as either wholly euphoric and invigorating, or terrifying and traumatic.” Prith suddenly looks extremely interested, and Hekkras, who hadn’t appeared to be paying any attention before, perks up. “It is also quite addictive if intake is not measured carefully.” With that, he tucks the parcel under his arm. “I, however, have no interest in such pursuits. I intend on distilling it in an attempt to create a tincture that will cause the heart cease beating within moments, with only a drop.” He stands to take the parcel to his workstation, but Prith circles around to block the door.

  
“Hold on, just a moment! You’ve just told us you are, legally, in possession of what sounds like  _ the best high in all of Kyla _ , and you don’t even intend on  _ trying _ it?”

 

“It is for my work _ , _ you hedonistic degenerate. And no, you may not have any.”

 

“... Not even for the sake of science?” Prith attempts, working every possible angle. For a moment Krax seems to actually consider it, so Staldar speaks up.

 

“If I catch anyone intentionally imbibing in such substances within our garrison I will dole out non-judicial punishment as I see fit,” he says, not looking at anyone in particular, monotone and threatening. Prith makes a sour face. Krax holds his requisition a little more firmly.

 

“I think it goes without saying this will be locked away with all my other dangerous materials. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

 

Prith steps aside, but as Krax passes, he deftly hooks a finger into the twine that holds the parcel all together and slips it quickly out of Krax’s hold from behind, prancing back a few steps. Krax quickly rounds on him, eyes wide and angry, white teeth shining against dark scales. He tries to snatch the parcel back, but Prith simply holds it over his head, pulling at the twine.

 

“Don’t you dare! This is not a controlled environment, you’ll expose us all and ruin my samples!”

 

“What, I’m not even allowed to look? I just want a peak.” The twine falls to the ground, and Krax’s panic grows. Staldar growls and stands to command Prith to cease his childishness, but right as he rises, the parcel wobbles dangerously, the lid shifting, and suddenly an almost impossibly tiny glass vial bounces out. Krax sees this and makes a valiant effort to catch it with a cry, but instead all he manages to do is bat the vial, which launches in a perfect arc right onto the table, right in between Staldar and Hekkras. The fragile little vial shatters surprisingly violently upon the wood surface, and a plume of burgundy dust explodes up into their faces.

 

“You idiot, what did I just say!” Krax yells at the same moment Yorsashi scrambles away from the table, Hekkras pushes his chair back, scrubbing his eyes and spitting, making disgusted sounds.

 

“Fuck, some got in my mouth!”

 

Staldar is holding his breath, waiting for the dust to settle, but he knows he’s already exposed, can see it all down the front of his shirt, has to fight not to cough. He slowly backs away from the table, trying not to stir the air any more than necessary. Krax and Prith are backed against the opposite wall, covering their faces. Yorsashi hovers in the door frame.

 

“Krax, tell me, right now, how long until it takes effect,” Staldar grinds out, breathing out slowly, clearing his throat. He can’t tell if his heart is beating hard from anger, anticipation, or the drug itself.

 

“Less than a minute. You both need to remove your contaminated clothing and be quarantined, more or less, immediately. I doubt it’s wise to leave either of you alone, however, because once it takes hold you’ll both be in highly altered states of mind. I’ll need to thoroughly decontaminate this room as well.”

 

As Krax lists off what needs to happen, Staldar and Hekkras both hastily start disrobing, shedding clothes until they are down to their smallclothes-- or in Hekkras’ case, lack thereof. Decorum has ceased to be a priority.

 

Prith, in the chaos, had very gently placed the box of vials onto the countertop behind himself, with an envious expression. He shows little remorse.

 

“Oops. What a waste. I’m almost too jealous to enjoy the shitshow that’s about to go down.”

 

“Prith, Yorsashi, will you escort these two to their quarters? Be sure not to touch them until I come by with something to wash any remaining residue off.” Prith sighs at Krax’s instructions.

 

“Come on, Hekkras. I don’t trust putting you in your room, it’s like an armory in there.” Hekkras and Prith quickly make their exit.

 

Staldar starts bee-lining towards his room, Yorsashi hovering just behind. Halfway there the floor seems to shift and move under Staldar’s feet, and he has to brace himself against the wall.

 

“ _ Damn. _ ”

 

“I know Krax said not to touch you, but if you need help--”

 

“No. Heed his instructions. I can make it,” Staldar grits out, taking measured breaths. He makes it to his door, ignoring the way the floor and walls seem to slither and move around him, the way is heart starts to hammer at his sternum. He sits down heavily at the desk and chair he recently had brought in, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes, but the strange slithering and writhing just persists behind his eyelids. He half growls, half groans.

 

“Staldar, maybe you should lay down…”

 

“Not until Krax comes by. I don't want to risk getting whatever this is on my sheets,” he mumbles. His tongue feels thick and clumsy in his mouth. He counts his breaths, holding and exhaling in timed intervals. He feels short of breath, regardless.

 

A telltale moan drifts from down the hall. And then another.

 

“You've got to be joking,” Yorsashi sighs. “It’s been two minutes,  _ maybe _ . I really shouldn’t be surprised, and yet...”

 

Staldar has no reply. His skin, scales and all, itches, feels too tight, too hot. Even his hands over his eyes, his  _ eyelids _ , his own touch borders on painful. He pulls his hands away and turns to look at Yorsashi.

 

A tall, dark mass looms over the green dragonborn’s shoulder, amorphous, featureless. Behind them the walls still pulsate, as if alive.

 

Staldar startles at the sight, heart in his throat, but he doesn't move, makes no sound, just watches, wide-eyed, breath halted.

 

“Why are you looking at me like-- Staldar, your eyes--”

 

A clawed hand snakes its way out of the mass, creeping over Yorsashi's shoulder.

 

Staldar jumps from his seat, choking out a “no!” before clapping a hand over his mouth, shutting his eyes tight. His other hand clutches at his chest, as if he could hold his heart still. His control is slipping faster than he'd expected. His breaths come out in sharp pants through shaking fingers. “ _ It's not there,”  _ he whispers in draconic. “ _ It's not there. _ ”

 

“Staldar, what's happening? Are you seeing things already?” Yorsashi's voice even sounds strange, distant but too loud all at once. Staldar cracks his eyes open in confusion. The mass is still lingers just behind Yorsashi, arm now curled around him in an almost tender gesture, but it keeps moving upwards, until the hand reaches Yorsashi’s throat. It drags a claw across, and Staldar watches in horror as blood wells up behind it in a neat line, dripping into the collar of his shirt. Yorsashi doesn’t react to this, instead tentatively stepping towards Staldar, hands up in a comforting gesture. The figure follows.

 

Staldar practically throws himself back against the shelf by his desk, its contents rattling, but nothing falls. He curses, turns away from Yorsashi, grasping at the shelf for support, but, like everything else around him, it seems to move with unnatural life, rubbery and strange.

 

“Don’t come near. Don’t touch me. Just. Just--,” Staldar pants out, words failing him. His skin is crawling, and if he dared to look, he’s sure he’d find any manner of horrible things clinging to him, so he doesn’t. He swallows thickly, and he realizes he can feel all his teeth on either side of his tongue, can feel every muscle as his throat contracts, can feel all his organs twitching, spasming, pumping, and it’s horrible. Alongside the fear, the disgust, intense sorrow yawns before Staldar and consumes him. The moaning from before takes on a strange quality to him, and it’s ceases to be moans, morphing into sobs and wails. “I don’t want you to see me like this,” he finally manages to get out, voice plaintive.

 

Before Yorsashi can say anything in response, the door opens and closes quickly as Krax enters.

 

“Well, those two are a lost cause. I presume at least that means he won’t suffer the, ah, more violent visions.” A pause. “I see that isn’t the case here.”

 

“I think he’s already hallucinating. His eyes look a bit strange.”

 

“His pupils are likely very dilated. He may become rather sensitive to the light soon if--”

 

“Don’t speak of me as if I’m not here,” Staldar manages to interject, but he stumbles over and slurs his words. His mouth has begun to salivate excessively, and the feeling makes him want to swallow but the sensations that follow are decidedly repulsive. The indignity of drooling in front of the others is also biting.

 

“Ah, you are still relatively coherent. That's good. I've brought a neutralizing solution that will essentially kill any lingering powder. You can try to apply it yourself, but it may be simpler to let someone do it for you, if you're already so addled.” Staldar hears a gentle slosh as Krax places something on the bare desk. He hears the squeak of the chair being dragged against the floorboards and the sound is like a railroad spike through his skull. “I also recommend you sit, Major. You look unsteady.”

 

Staldar slowly chances a glance, peering over his shoulder. He’s relieved that the dark apparition has vanished, but Yorsashi’s throat still slowly seeps, shirt growing dark with blood. Krax, even without the effects of the drug, seems to absorb all light, like a living shadow, a moving void, vivid violet eyes peering out. He’s holding the back of the chair, patiently waiting for Staldar to sit. Staldar turns and feels himself sway slightly, but resolutely puts one foot in front of the other, and turns to sit again.

 

But as he sits, he feels the seat under him, but the sensation of his momentum continuing down, like falling, causes him to tense, lurching forward. He clenches the fabric of his leggings in his fists, breathing hard, tensing against all the bizarre sensations, and all he wants is to feel grounded in reality again. A growl bubbles and crackles somewhere in his chest. He hears Krax sigh.

 

“The more you fight it, this experience, the worse it will be for you. I can’t promise that simply letting the drug run its course and relaxing will make it enjoyable, but fighting it will exhaust you and exacerbate the--”

 

“Do what you need to do and get the hell out,” Staldar spits out, anger flaring. His chest hurts, his head hurts, and he’s struggling to accept that this will be his life for the next however many hours. Krax takes it in stride, voice neutral.

 

“Very well. I need to decontaminate the kitchen. Things are going to get much, much worse before they get better. You’ll have to combat dehydration. Yorsashi, I leave him to you. I’ll check in periodically.”

 

“Thank you, Krax,” Yorsashi murmurs in a tone Staldar can’t identify. Krax’s retreating footsteps echo strangely. The door clicks shut again.

 

Yorsashi circles around, taking the small basin as he goes. He kneels in front of Staldar, wringing  out the rag, watching him with concerned, wary eyes. Staldar holds out a hand to take the rag, but Yorsashi just gently takes his wrist in his own hand. Staldar flinches at the touch, can feel it all the way up his arm, but Yorsashi just holds him still and begins applying the solution.

 

“I can do that.”

 

“I know,” Yorsashi replies quietly. “I know this is… kind of your worst nightmare, I know you hate not being in control. Being vulnerable. But you have to know that I’d never think any less of you for it.” As he says all this, cleansing as he goes, Staldar watches the cut on his throat move with him, watches the blood that continues to well up. In the back of his mind he knows it’s not real, but the vision of it so real, so convincing. It scares him.

 

He reaches out.

 

Yorsashi freezes at the touch, blinking, not expecting it. “Staldar?” Staldar doesn’t reply, dragging rough fingertips over the laceration, troubled to find warm wetness spread across his hand. Yorsashi swallows at the careful touch, and something conflicted flits behind his eyes. He extracts Staldar’s hand and apparently reads the horror that crosses Staldar’s face when he sees that his hand comes away red.

 

“ _ Gods. _ ” It comes out on the exhale between panting breaths. He fights the urge to wipe his hand on something, part of him knowing it would be fruitless, part of him fearing the mess.

 

“It’s alright. It’s not there. Whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real.” Yorsashi keeps murmuring in this way, attempting to soothe or distract, but Staldar just rolls his thumb and fingers together, baffled and sickened by the sensations his mind was inventing. And he wondered, if he brought his hand to his face, would he be able to smell that coppery scent, could he taste its metallic tang? He shuddered, afraid to know if his mind could somehow produce such foul things.

 

The blood suddenly burbles and bubbles, and it morphs into a handful of centipedes, which quickly appear to skitter across his skin. He quickly shakes his hand.

 

“... That’s  _ fucked _ …”

 

“Staldar, can you focus for just a moment? I know this is difficult, but I need to do your face.”

 

Staldar complies, trying to still himself, but his body practically vibrates. He focuses on Yorsashi’s face, and his already racing heart finds it in itself to beat a little harder. He aches.

 

“You… didn’t have to do this,” he tries to enunciate carefully, slowly. Yorsashi just smiles his kind smile, eyes warm. He holds Staldar’s muzzle with one hand, blotting with the rag in the other, in a familiar gesture.

 

“You would have done the same for me.”

 

And it’s true.

 

With decontamination out of the way, Staldar finally lays down on top of the sheets, ignoring how he can feel every single coarse thread, the room tilting to-and-fro. He closes his eyes against the strange writhing and colors and shapes appearing on the ceiling. The sounds from across the hall, which had lulled for a short time, picks up again. Yorsashi brings the desk chair over to Staldar’s bedside, and he notices Staldar’s grimace.

 

“Can I help?”

  
  
“I need… a distraction. S-something… I can concentrate on…”

 

“I can tell the story of Bahamut for you again, if you like?”

 

Staldar nods, turning to press his face into the mattress.

 

As Yorsashi tells the story, Staldar tosses and turns uncomfortably, kicking the sheets off, and eventually he falls into a stupor that’s almost like sleep. He dreams of dragons.

…

Krax is right. It gets much worse before it gets better.

 

The hot flashes turn to cold flashes back to hot flashes. He’s exhausted, but he can’t lie still, his limbs ache and throb and itch, and Yorsashi has to stop him from accidentally clawing at himself several times. He rips holes in the bedding.

 

Sometimes his mouth feels like a desert, other times he salivates profusely, nausea roiling in him. At one point he heaves and heaves into a waste bin, but with an empty stomach, little comes of it.

 

A few times he becomes so scared, so paranoid, so guilty, sees the faces of slewn enemies on the ceiling, hears the voices of fallen compatriots, and Yorsashi, a sentinel in the delirium, offers words of comfort, a hand to hold. 

 

Eventually, the fever of the drug breaks, and Staldar falls into real, blessedly dreamless sleep.

…

Everyone is late to breakfast, but somehow, Staldar is still the first to seat himself at the table, nursing an intense headache, but still going over the morning’s paperwork. Krax and Yorsashi arrive at about the same time. Hekkras shuffles in, looking tired, but no worse for wear. Prith waltzes in last, practically glowing. He hides a grin with mock sympathy upon seeing Staldar.

 

“Ah, Major, glad to see you’re up and about, but uh, excuse me for saying so, but you look… well, awful, frankly.”

 

“Noted. You’re on KP duty for a month,” Staldar says in a gravelly monotone, never raising his eyes from his parchments. He obligingly nibbles on some toast Yorsashi slides his way.

 

“K-KP?! For a  _ month?! _ Sir, it was an accident--”

 

“Two months.” Staldar raises his tired, red eyes to Prith. “Want to try for three? Detoxification has me feeling  _ very  _ generous this morning.”

 

Prith pouts but finally concedes.

 

Hekkras drains an entire pitcher of juice.

* * *

 


	20. Feeblemind

* * *

**_“Feeblemind”_ **

* * *

 

  
  


They all hate fighting against magic users.

 

The only one with enough range and cover to stay well out of the way of all the spells flying back and forth while the others struggle to dodge and trade spells of their own is Yorsashi, but even with his keen eye, it’s difficult to get clear shots. He does manage to keep the smugglers from spreading out and flanking, felling one who attempts this. Hekkras and Krax are having the roughest time of it, looking for any opportunity to get close, but there is little opportunity. Krax manages to splash one of the more aggressive casters with, presumably, some sort of acid, judging by the way the man falls to ground screaming, clutching his steaming face. Seeing this, some of the younger ones flee, choosing their lives (and faces) over smuggled goods.

 

“Cowards!” The oldest man snarls after them, and it becomes clear he’s the ring-leader, if his commanding tone and finer clothes are anything to go by. “They’re no match! Stand your ground!”

 

Everyone is forced to take cover behind the nearest trees as a fresh volley of magical fire and lightning roar past.

 

“I’m nearly tapped, Staldar,” Prith pants, arcane energy still crackling around him. “I can’t keep this up much longer.”

 

“We need to end this stalemate. They’re not warriors, so the moment we get close enough, they’ll go down, but we need an opening,” Staldar grunts out, holding his stinging shoulder. He could feel the effects of a Witch Bolt coiled tight in the muscle there, pulsing hot and electric. “Well, I know I’ve got at least one preoccupied,” he growls, tiny arcs of electricity glancing off his pauldron.

 

“I think I could manage to create a distraction or some cover, but that’s about all I have left in me,” Prith offers.

 

“If you create cover, I can dispatch the elder. The others are nothing without him,” Krax hisses, swatting at his singed sleeve, still smoking. Prith nods in agreement.

 

“The rest may as well be drones, but he has serious ability. If you’re going after him, watch yourself. The best I can do for now is some fog. Will that be enough?”

 

“That is plenty. If the rest of you draw their fire, I can have him down in less than a minute.” Hekkras nods at this, gripping his warhammers tightly. “You’ve already got one concentrating on you, Staldar, so if you can endure it--”

 

As he says it, Staldar goes stiff and quiet, face a mask of pain, gripping at the edge of his pauldron. It passes after a second, and he exhales hard, sneering.

 

“Yes, yes, do what you need to do. Quickly. Yorsashi!”

 

After a moment, the green dragonborn appears in the branches above them.

 

“Have a plan?”

 

“Prith is going to surround them with fog so Krax can get close to their leader. Watch his back, don’t let anyone leave the fog,” Staldar commands.

 

“Understood.” Yorsashi wastes no time getting into position.

 

Prith starts to cast, and as intended, fog begins to rise around all of the smugglers, some looking about in confusion, some putting their hands up defensively, preparing spells. Seeing an opportunity, Hekkras darts out with a roar, pouncing on the nearest smuggler, barely visible in the fog. Another round of spells go flying in the direction of the roar and ensuing screams of fear. Staldar jerks, feeling the caster send a pulse to the magical bolt, knocking the wind out of him. Krax has vanished, like the shadow he is. Staldar hears Yorsashi loose a few bolts from his vantage point, but then a fire bolt goes tearing overhead, igniting the branches he had been perched on. He comes crashing down with a dismayed cry, hitting the ground hard. Staldar starts to move, but his head swims and the current running up and down his arm intensifies, causing him to fall back against the tree behind him.

 

“Stay with me, Drachenhearth, Hekkras and Krax are going to need back-up right about now,” Prith says sharply. Staldar growls out a low draconic curse, before twisting around, hand outstretched, summoning a magical orb into his palm before sending it out in a flash, and to his luck, it hits one of the mages squarely in the chest, a shock of thunder causing him to collapse. As it hits, Staldar feels the Witch Bolt release, and he can breathe easy again, though his shoulder aches. With Yorsashi down, unable to keep the smugglers from leaving the fog, Staldar and Prith watch as two more make a break for it, running away, and the tides start to turn.

 

“Stop! Idio--  _ augh! _ ” The leader gives a cry of pain, staggering. He turns, a sickle sticking in his back, Krax standing behind with two more blades at the ready. “Hah, you cunning little thing.” He wheezes, a trickle of blood bubbling from his lips. “But no more, snake,” he barks, eyes growing bright, chanting. Krax lunges, but the spell is cast, and Krax takes the blast full-on. Krax’s momentum carries him through the motion, blades burying themselves in the man’s throat, and the two topples over and Krax is left crouching over the man’s corpse, clutching his head.

 

Prith, barely able to see Krax’s dark form fall in the fog, disperses the mist in a rush. Staldar summons Filkiati and runs out, and the last of the smugglers can only put up a meager fight before being neutralized. Some fall to the ground, hands raised in surrender. Staldar moves to check on Yorsashi, who stumbles out of the treeline, a little singed and sore looking. Hekkras, bruised, burnt, but somehow still standing, wastes no time slapping manacles on the remaining mages.

 

“That was a shitshow,” he grumbles.

 

Prith approaches Krax from where he’s still bent over the man’s body, making a vaguely pained sound.

 

“What the hell was that? Are you alright?” Prith reaches out, but before he makes contact, Krax makes a sound no one had ever heard from him, something between a growl and an open mouthed hiss, lashing out with outspread claws, eyes wild with rage and fear. Prith yelps at the slash, clutching his wrist to his chest. “What the fuck, Krax! I was just trying to see if you were alright! No need to be so touchy,” Prith whines angrily. Krax just watches him, mouth parted as if prepared to bite if necessary, hunched like a cornered animal. Prith is unnerved by the look in his eyes. “H-hey, come on, the fight’s over, calm down already. If you’re hurting, don’t you have a potion or something? Krax?” He’s met with silence, no light of recognition or understanding in Krax’s eyes, but the fear fades, and he lowers his claws, watching Prith intently, gaze only slightly less baleful, still growling. “Uh, I think something is wrong with Krax, guys!”

 

Everyone looks up, concerned. Staldar treads over, brow furrowed. Krax’s eyes turn to him, and he observes quietly, shifting off of the body bellow him, to stand, posture still slightly defensive, wary.

 

“Is he hurt?” Staldar questions, and Prith shrugs.

 

“Not that I can tell. He’s giving me the silent treatment.” Staldar squints at this, then meets Krax’s eyes.

 

“Krax, status report. If you can’t speak, you know hand signals.” Silence, a tilt of his head, hearing Staldar, but not comprehending. “... This isn’t good,” Staldar sighs.

 

“It’s that magic that old man cast at the last moment, isn’t it? He’s all… brainwashed or addled or some shit,” Prith hypothesizes, dragging a tired hand down his face. “Ugh. Great. Just. Great!” He throws his hands up in the air with an angry sound, and Krax flinches with a little hiss, startled by the outburst. Staldar puts up his hands placatingly, hushing them.

 

“Cool it, Prith. Whatever that mage did, It seems Krax isn’t the most trustful right now, so don’t scare or agitate him.” He looks to Krax, and the distrusting squint in his eye almost feels normal, but the way his shoulders are pulled forward instead of back, head low, hands out in front of him give him away. “Here, Krax, look here,” he says quietly, proffering a hand. Krax looks at his hand, then up at his face, then back to his hand. And then he looks around himself, as if looking for something, but unsure of what he should be looking for. “No, Krax, let me-- here,” Staldar reaches out for his hand, and Krax makes a disconcerted sound, grousing as Staldar pulls him closer, checking all his pockets and the lining of his coat. “Forgive me, but if you’ve got a potion that may help, I’ll need to-- ah, maybe this,” Staldar mumbles softly, keeping his voice gentle, pulling out a familiar little bottle. He uncorks it, and after a second thought, sniffs the contents. With Krax, you can never be too careful. To his pleasure, the familiar scent of a healing potion wafts up. “Alright, Krax, do you know what to do with this?” He holds it out in front of Krax, but still, there’s no spark of understanding in his eyes, only mild inquiry. He sniffs like he’d seen Staldar do, and makes a disgusted face, shaking his head. Staldar sighs. This was going to be more difficult than he thought.

 

“What’s the plan, Drachenhearth? We’re a little over half a day out from the city, and we’ve got detainees now,” Hekkras rumbles impatiently, pointing to the three smugglers he has tethered together. Krax slowly slinks around to the other side of Staldar, seeking some separation from the large, gruff dragonborn. 

 

“Prith? You’re completely drained?”

 

“Mmhmm,” he hums dismissively, picking at his claws. “At least until tomorrow.”

 

“Then there’s nothing for it. We’ll take them back to camp for the time being and Prith will send a message for backup in the morning.” Staldar turns his attention back to Krax, recorking the little bottle. “I get the feeling this isn’t something a simple health potion is going to solve, and I doubt I could make you drink anyways,” he laments. “What in the hells are we going to do with you?”

 

Krax just blinks, and it’s almost like he’s listening, trying to parse what’s being said, but nothing seems to stick. He loses interest, realizing he’s no longer being addressed, and takes to idly examining the fallen mages, rifling through their clothing as if searching for something, but not really pocketing anything.

 

“Some things never change,” Yorsashi murmurs, limping over. “What is he even looking for?”

  
“No idea. I doubt he really knows either.” They continue to watch for a moment, before Staldar passes Yorsashi the little potion bottle. “You look like you could use this.”

 

“Thanks, but if it’s all the same, I might pass this off to Hekkras. He looks like hell.”

 

“You know he’ll refuse it, the stubborn fool. He never takes Krax’s potions anymore.”

 

“Well, it’s a good thing it’s coming from me, then, hm?” Yorsashi gives Staldar a bittersweet smile, before meandering over to Hekkras, who’s started to line the remaining bodies up for easier cleanup later. As always, Yorsashi is right, and Hekkras doesn’t think twice about downing the potion, condition swiftly improving. He gives a gruff nod of thanks, clapping Yorsashi on the back (who stumbles, wincing), then continues moving bodies around.

 

Staldar bends down and pulls Krax’s sickle from the body of the man, tucking the awkward weapon into his belt to the best of his ability. Krax always made it look easy, borderline graceful to wield, but holding it himself, Staldar wonders how he manages.

 

Krax loses focus again, apparently bored of his pointless rummaging, and looks to the others. Seeing Yorsashi sit, resting against one of the crates of smuggled items, he creeps over and sits as well. Yorsashi smiles wanly at him.

 

“You have no idea what’s going on, do you, Krax?” Krax just blinks his large, violet eyes at him. “Well, at least you seem to know when someone is talking to you.” Krax pulls his knees up to his chest, leaning against the crate, sighing. Yorsashi feels a small pang of sympathy for him, unused to seeing their potions expert so blank, eyes bored and empty. “You’re probably tired. Maybe a little hungry by now? I know I’m ready to get back to camp and get something on the fire, at least,” Yorsashi mutters, half to himself, half to Krax. He pulls a little bundle out of his hip bag, revealing a handful of dried, smoked meat for traveling. He holds a strip out for Krax, who lifts his head. “Here, eat this, just as a little pick-me-up.” There’s a moment where Yorsashi isn’t sure Krax will take it, but eventually he accepts the meat, but doesn’t eat, confused by the gift. Yorsashi just patiently takes a strip for himself, and demonstrates, taking a bite. Krax mimics this, taking a bite, then makes a soft sound, like a little croon, apparently pleased with the snack, eating the rest in another bite. Yorsashi can’t help but laugh at this tiny sound of pleasure, so unlike the Krax he knows, and when he looks again, Krax is watching him expectantly. Yorsashi snorts. “If you want more, I think it’s best to hold off. We’ll have a proper meal soon.” Krax continues to linger near Yorsashi, but eventually gives up on the prospect of more food, instead just resting.

 

Shortly thereafter, they make the trek back to camp, prisoners in tow. Krax is reluctant to go traipsing through the forest at first, tired and slightly moody, perhaps aching from the day’s events, though it’s difficult for the others to discern the cause of his hesitation. Yorsashi plies him with a little more of the meat, and he becomes more cooperative, following the green dragonborn a little more readily.

 

Upon reaching the camp, where everyone can finally settle, quickly getting a fire going (and secure the detainees to a tree little off to the side), Krax does not hesitate to lay on his side in the grass, warming himself by the fire, curled around himself. Yorsashi tuts softly, trying to get him to sit up, or, at least, lay on a blanket rather than the unforgiving ground. “You’ll thank me later,” he murmurs, getting Krax to resettle.

 

They let Krax doze, not that there’s much else for him to do in this state, and they’re all tired enough that, really, it doesn’t feel as strange as it should have. Yorsashi starts a simple roast over the fire, humming to himself while the rest clean their armor and weapons, lick their wounds, winding down for the day. When Yorsashi sits, taking his spot near Staldar, who is running Filkiati over a whetstone, Krax lifts his head, peering blearily at him. He shifts, sitting up, then, without any prompting, starts to drag the blanket closer to them. Staldar huffs in amusement, pausing his sharpening.

 

“He’s rather drawn to you in this state. I think he associates you with food now.”

 

“I don’t doubt it. At least it means he’ll trust us until a cleric can come,” Yorsashi sighs. “Honestly, I’m just glad it’s not… worse. Can you imagine how scary it would be to lose all your memories, the ability to understand and speak, all of it? I mean, I suppose Krax has always been on the more, ah, independent side, aloof, but-- I don’t know. I guess I’m saying I’d rather he feel safe and be a little clingy rather than the alternative. It’s upsetting, seeing him act so… different.”

 

“I don’t know, he has no biting commentary, unsolicited criticisms, or rude names to call me, so I rather think this is an improvement,” Prith snickers, overhearing Yorsashi. “Why, I could say anything, and he’d have no retort, isn’t that right, you creepy little necrophiliac!” Krax just narrows his eyes at the louder, more animated dragonborn, but ultimately ignores him, watching the fire instead.

 

“Don’t talk like that, Prith! What if he remembers this when he comes out of it?” Yorsashi reprimands.

 

“Not to mention, I won’t tolerate such disrespect for someone who cannot currently defend themself, let alone your team member,” Staldar growls, only briefly looking up from his blade to give Prith a cold look. Prith groans but concedes.

 

“Gods, what killjoys. I expect if he remembers he’ll get retribution some way or another, so I’ll drop it.” Prith goes back to idly filing his claws, getting them back into a more suitable shape. “What are we going to do about watch tonight? And are we going to trust him to be fine in his tent alone while he’s like this?”

 

Staldar and Yorsashi look to one another for a moment, quietly deliberating.

 

“As far as watch goes, we’ll just have to go longer between rotations. I’ll fill any gaps left by Krax’s absence,” Staldar begins.

 

“And at least one of us will always be in our tent, so I guess we’ll keep watching over him,” Yorsashi finishes. “With any luck, he’ll simply sleep through the night and it won’t be a problem.”

 

As evening continues to descend, everyone finishes their dinner slowly, save for Krax, who Yorsashi tries to feed in such a way that he can maintain his dignity, but his efforts are futile, with Krax impatiently trying to gobble his meal straight out of his bowl. Yorsashi’s attempts to slow him are met with half-hearted growls and shuffling out of reach.

 

“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” Yorsashi grumbles. “I’m not taking it away, I just don’t want you making a mess of yourself.” In the end, he gives up, letting Krax finish on his own. With a spare handkerchief, Yorsashi does manage to wipe his face when he lifts his head from bowl, licking his chops like an enormous, satisfied cat. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Yorsashi sighs, taking the empty bowl from him.

 

The next hurdle is deciding whether or not getting Krax out of his dirty, charred clothes is worth the struggle. None of them had ever seen the dark dragonborn dressed down in less than his day-to-day uniform, a stuffy, high-necked, long-sleeved outfit that obscures his physique. Even when drilling, he shed few layers. The decision was made for them, however, when Krax actually began to pick at the buckles of his own kit, visibly uncomfortable. It is strange to see their uptight colleague sigh in relief as Staldar plucks at the fastenings for him. Though he’s the smallest of the team, his stiff posture and long, angular clothing always made him feel larger, and the way he would always make eye contact made him somewhat intimidating. Now, however, not quite dressed down to his smalls, Staldar is reminded how small he truly is.

 

Prith and Staldar take first watch, the rest bedding down, exhausted. Staldar overhears some hushed murmurs from Yorsashi to Krax, then quiet, at least until Hekkras’ snores drift from his tent.

 

Staldar decides to clean Krax’s simple armor and sickle. Prith is quietly making notes in a journal by the firelight. The hours pass easily, the weather kind and calm. Staldar checks the positions of the moons periodically, but as he grows weary, he finds himself simply watching the night sky, forgetting about cleaning and sharpening and whatever tedium he could find for himself.

 

In the wee hours of the morning, nearing time to trade off and get a proper rest, they look up, hearing a soft shuffle and muffled whimper from Yorsashi and Staldar’s tent, then silence. They wait, and a barely louder sound of distress and more rustling causes Staldar to stand slowly, worried. Yorsashi’s soft, sleepy voice comes next, full of concern. Staldar starts to sit back down, but then a terrifying sound rings out, a feral scream of fear and fury, causing both Staldar and Prith to jump, and Yorsashi’s frightened shout and visible commotion from the tent set Staldar in motion.

 

Parting the tent flap, Staldar, to his horror, sees Yorsashi is pinned to ground, still tangled in his bedroll, just barely holding off Krax, who has murder in his eyes, claws spread wide, teeth gnashing.

 

Staldar hardly thinks, just grabs him by the scruff of his neck, tearing him off of Yorsashi, and slams him back to the ground, holding him there. Yorsashi gasps, eyes glittering with unshed tears of fear and pain, quickly scrambling over, pulling at Staldar.

 

“Don’t hurt him, Staldar, oh Gods, don’t hurt him!”

 

Staldar just growls back at the smaller form under him, which writhes and squalls under his grip, scratching and ripping at the sleeve of his gambeson.

 

“He just tried to kill you!”

 

“He had a  _ nightmare,  _ he was  _ crying,  _ he’s scared and confused and I was just the first thing he saw, so please, j-just--,” Yorsashi’s voice breaks, and Staldar looks down in the darkness at Krax. The smaller dragonborn pants and snarls bellow him, trying with all his might to bite Staldar’s wrist, and even in the low-light, he does see the lingering tear tracks on his face.

 

“If I let him go, he’ll continue to attack,” Staldar hisses, wincing as Krax continues to tear at the hand holding him, back legs pushing at him with all his strength. Luckily,  Krax is not particularly strong.

 

“He’s  _ hurting _ , Staldar, he’s hurting and not himself a-and-- we have to help him somehow, we h-have to find a way t-to…” Yorsashi trails off with a shuddering breath, covering his face with his hands. Staldar can’t quite make out what he says next, except for some whimpered apologies.

 

Staldar looks between them, that frantic fight instinct and adrenaline and pain and exhaustion making him dizzy. Finally, watching Krax’s frightened, angry face, he eases his grip. He pays for it immediately, Krax immediately latching onto his forearm, teeth burying themselves into the muscle there, even through the gambeson. He grunts in pain, and Yorsashi looks up, making a mortified sound, but Staldar ignores him in favor of quickly manipulating Krax into a position where he can hold him close, squeezing the smaller, shaking form to himself. Krax doesn’t let go, an animal growl rattling in his throat. Staldar just makes a hushing sound, ignoring the pain of the bite.

 

“You’re safe,” Staldar says, attempting a low, comforting tone. “You’re safe.”

 

It’s a slow process, Krax breathing hard through his nose, trembling, but eventually, the growls stop, and Staldar pries his arm from his mouth, little circles of blood blossoming in the sleeve at the puncture sites, but does not stop holding his shivering team member. Yorsashi just watches, wide-eyed, eyes leaking with large, sorrowful tears. Of all of them, Yorsashi always showed the most empathy, and sometimes, Staldar’s heart breaks for him, seeing other’s pain reflected in him. But it’s also part of what makes him so fond of the green dragonborn.

 

“I’m sorry I panicked,” Yorsashi says quietly. “I’ll get bandages for you.” Yorsashi rises, legs unsteady, ducking out of tent, hastily wiping away his tears. Staldar hears some quiet back and forth between him, Prith, and Hekkras, who had been woken in the commotion.

 

Staldar just keeps muttering reassuring nonsense to Krax, a beast turned child in a matter of moments. Krax tucks his face into Staldar’s arm, clinging to him, and he feels the moisture from his tears. Staldar’s own heart and breathing slows, and more than ever, he just wants to lay down and rest, even if it means holding Krax like a terrified hatchling.

 

“I’m sorry this happened,” Staldar says to him. “I’m sorry we couldn’t stop this, that we couldn’t help you once the damage was done. I hope you won’t remember this, if only for the sake of your pride. You do a brave thing, and this is the thanks you get,” Staldar scoffs. “But ours is a thankless job, isn’t it?” He’s met with silence. “... Right.”

 

Yorsashi ducks back in, bandages and salve in his hands.

 

“Ah, I’ll need access to your arm, somehow. Is it okay to let go now, or…?”

 

Staldar starts to let go with both arms, but Krax whimpers, clutching him desperately. Staldar sighs, instead extending his injured arm.

 

“Cut the sleeve off if you must. This garment isn’t worth saving.”

 

“... Alright.”

 

Yorsashi makes quick work of it, digging a small blade out of on of their packs, cutting away the ruined cloth. Salve applied, bandage wrapped, Staldar feels some relief, nodding his thanks.

 

“Will you be alright to go on watch?”

 

“Yes, yes, I’m fine, a little shaken, but fine. I’m more concerned about you, I mean, you’ve been up for hours and hours, the fight earlier was rough, a-and now this.” Yorsashi’s voice is full of lament.

 

“It is what it is. He’s calmed and still exhausted as well, so he’ll be asleep again soon, I imagine. But whatever needs to happen to get us through the night, so be it.” He can already feel Krax’s body relaxing, his breath slowing. Yorsashi smiles sadly at him.

 

“Sometimes I wish you weren’t so pragmatic about everything.”

 

“Go relieve Prith, Yorsashi.”

 

Yorsashi nods and leaves once more. Staldar immediately tries to settle Krax down, but the distraught potioneer wriggles and crawls back into his lap with a pleading sound. Staldar gives up, instead pulling Krax into a bedroll with him.

 

“If you do remember this, spare me your ire. Needs must,” Staldar grumbles half-heartedly. It only takes moments for them both to fall asleep, Krax curled against Staldar’s chest.

…

The morning comes with no more incident. Prith wastes no time sending a message back to the garrison, receiving swift confirmation in turn. They change into fresh uniforms, start to tear down camp, preparing for the arrival of help, more than ready to finally get back to their little keep. Krax, who’d shown at least some interest in the goings ons around him the evening before, is comparatively subdued that morning, despondent.

 

By mid-day, a moderate troop arrives to the clearing with a few horse drawn carts. This actually unnerves Krax at first, seeking safety with Staldar, but seeing everyone else’s calm detachment, he relaxes.

 

Prisoners and supplies quickly loaded onto a cart, the two clerics start to attend to everyone, one focusing on Krax’s affliction. Yorsashi encourages Krax to stay still while the cleric evaluates him.

 

“Oh. Oh, what a nasty enchantment. How cruel,” she tuts, digging through her supplies.

 

“Are you familiar with it?” Staldar questions as the other healer works on his arm, undoing the bandages.

 

“Only slightly. It’s fairly powerful magic, and rather dirty, so, it’s certainly not common. From what I remember, if this is what I think it is, then your poor friend is not only mute, but can’t understand any language, has no memories to speak of, just, has very little of himself left at all.”

 

“So… can it be reversed?”

 

“Oh yes, and I believe I can do so now,” they reply, pulling out a tiny jar of coarse, silvery-white powder. “Yes, you’re quite in luck, this should reverse the effects. Just a moment…”

 

The cleric takes a hold of her holy symbol, a pendant of the moons of Pholtus, and begins to recite something under her breath, pouring the shimmering dust in a circle around Krax, who stares at the ground, shifting from foot to foot. Circle completed, she reaches out to touch his forehead. The reaction is almost immediate, Krax gasping as divine light consumes the crystalline sand on the ground, burning it away to nothing, not even ashes. He starts to fall, knees buckling, but Staldar catches him, bearing his weight easily.

 

“Easy, easy,” Staldar murmurs. Krax groans, one hand gripping Staldar’s arm, the other covering his face.

 

“I need to sit down for a moment,” Krax grits out. Yorsashi makes a relieved sound, as if he’d been holding his breath, while Staldar helps lower him to the ground.

 

“How are you feeling? Do you know where you are?” The cleric crouches down, watching Krax’s face. Krax blinks a few times, eyes slowly focusing on her, gaze as sharp as ever.

 

“I suppose I’m feeling quite better, all things considered, but my head hurts. And we’re out in the godsdamned woods on assignment, which I would like to change.” Krax complains hoarsely. “I am not going to play twenty-questions with you right now.”

 

“Ah, that’s the Krax we all know and begrudgingly tolerate. Welcome back, Major,” Prith crows.

 

“Don’t talk to me, Prithscillus, I remember what you said,” Krax hisses, glaring daggers at him.

 

“Oh, hells,” Prith whispers to himself with a sigh.

 

“Can you stand?” Staldar asks, offering a hand. Krax nods and takes it, letting Staldar haul him up. Krax, for once, does not meet his eye, rather pointedly, brushing off his dark coat. His face is dour.

 

“I wish to put all of this behind me as swiftly as possible, but I’d be remiss not to thank you, and Yorsashi, for your aid. So, thank you both.”

 

“Of course,” Yorsashi replies quietly.

 

“It’s our duty to look after one another. No thanks are necessary,” Staldar dismisses. “Let’s get a move on.”

 

Part of the troop remains behind to pick up the bodies and crates of smuggled goods, while the rest make their way back to the city.

 

Krax grows distant for a few days, a little more frigid than usual, but it’s not a surprising reaction. The others decide not to push. He eventually falls back into place, and finally, things start to feel as if they had mended, going back to normal.

 

And everyone knows things are back to normal when Prith suddenly falls over, foaming at the mouth at breakfast one morning. Krax gives him a sadistic grin as he administers the antidote.

* * *

 


	21. Undercurrent (aka Beach Episode)

* * *

**_“Undercurrent” (aka “Beach Episode”)_ **

* * *

 

  
  


“I can’t believe that  _ worked _ !” Prith whoops, running full tilt down the beach, shedding clothes as he goes.

 

“What, don’t you care about getting sand on your fine linens?” Hekkras calls behind him with a sneer, still picking up the flowy articles as he treads across the sands, grains shifting under his weight, claws sinking, leaving soft imprints. Prith just makes a rude gesture, finally kicking off his ‘boots’ in a few inelegant hops.

 

The other Fangs are relieved to find that he has opted to wear shorts beneath his leggings.

  
They still leave little to the imagination.

 

“There is nothing anyone can say or do to bring me down today! And really, you should all be grateful that I had the idea to request recuperation leave on behalf of the team in the first place!” Prith looks back over his shoulder with a proud smirk and a pose as if to receive their praises.

 

“‘Grateful’ is not the emotion I’m currently feeling towards you,” Krax grumbles from behind the group, trudging along under a plain, dark parasol, bright violet eyes hidden behind a pair of tinted lenses, an inky blot on the otherwise glittering landscape.

 

Yorsashi huffs out a quiet laugh, trying to hide his mirth from Krax, who continues to sulk.

 

“Didn’t I hear you saying earlier that this would be a good opportunity to catch up on some reading you wanted to do? I thought you were glad for some free time,” the green dragonborn says.

 

“Well, I was imagining reading my book in a place with exponentially less… sand…. and sun…”

 

“HEY KRAX, HERE’S WHERE YOU CAN STICK YOUR BOOK!”

 

With a gleeful cackle from the edge of the water, Prith magically directs a violent torrent of seawater at Krax, whose only possible response is a screaming gurgle of surprise and rage.

 

“Prith! Enough of that,” Staldar barks, to little affect. Prith releases the spell after a moment, in complete hysterics. Hekkras and Yorsashi fight laughter at the sight of Krax, parasol sagging pitifully, soaked and bedraggled, sputtering and fuming.

 

“I’LL KILL YOU, PRITHSCILLUS, I SWEAR ON EVERY SINGLE TOOTH IN ALL OF TIAMAT’S HEADS, I’LL VIVISECT YOU IN YOUR SLEEP--,” Krax yells rather impotently between coughing fits, dripping sullenly onto the sand.

 

They bicker back and forth until Prith uses another spell to dry Krax and remove all the brine. Krax, agitated but placated, picks a high up on the beach, away from the ocean. And away from the others.

 

“What about you, Staldar?” Yorsashi asks, tilting his head up to meet his eye. “You’ve been rather mum about all this. I know you prefer to keep busy.”

 

“I was just going to say, I was expecting you to dig your heels in a little more and insist that there’s work to be done.” Prith chimes in, flicking some cold sea water at Staldar’s nose. “It’s honestly a little disconcerting how amenable you’ve been, humoring this little mini vacation.” Hekkras nods along and Staldar realizes he suddenly has all their attention.

 

“Well, ah… You followed proper procedure for requesting leave and it was granted. I see no cause for protest,” he replies simply. And it’s the truth, partially. Another truth is that the summertime is always unkind to him. If he feels the most like himself at the height of winter in the coldest months, he feels the least like himself in the boiling mid-summer heat. But, of course, he’s not keen on admitting his own fatigue and discomfort, admit that even he feels weary. “Seeing as it was approved, I take that to mean we’ve earned it and there is nothing urgent requiring our attention.”

 

His answer is enough to get a dismissive shrug from Hekkras and a doubtful but unchallenging squint from Prith. Yorsashi’s  face remains placid, but he knowingly side-eyes Staldar, who quickly averts his gaze and continues down the beach.

 

The mid-morning sun rises quickly, warming the empty beach with its rays. Hekkras and Prith romp in the shallows like rowdy children for a time, and it reminds Staldar how young they truly are compared to Yorsashi and himself. Grown, certainly, but full of youth, in their prime, full of a vigor Staldar wished he’d appreciated more when he had it. He and Yorsashi watch them from a blanket spread on the sands, borrowed from one of their camping bundles, the green dragonborn happily sprawled out, sunning himself. Staldar tries not to stare, truly makes an effort, but Yorsashi’s scales glint and glimmer in the light and he’s so near, laid nearly bare.  _ ‘The sun is getting to me _ ,’ he thinks, tugging fitfully at his collar and shirt sleeves. Yorsashi looks up to Staldar from his basking, propping himself up on his elbows, and Staldar quickly looks away again, heat crawling up his neck.

 

“It’s getting warmer. Are you not burning up in that vest?” He sits up a little further, leaning in to look at the slight flush blooming across Staldar’s face. “You know there’s no expectation to be particularly modest here. You don’t have to go as far as Prith, but if you’re uncomfortable, you should shed a layer or two.”

 

“Yes, yes, I’ll disrobe as I see fit, thank you,” Staldar huffs, making no move to undress. Yorsashi shrugs and stretches out once more, resting his chin on crossed arms. There are a few moments of quiet, only the sounds of softly breaking waves and distant splashing and laughter and banter. In those moments, Staldar’s resolves wears down, cotton and leather becoming sun-warmed in the worst way. Defeated, he unbuttons and shucks off his vest, unbuttoning the collar of his shirt, rolling up his sleeves. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Yorsashi smirking to himself, eyes closed.

 

At some point, Staldar finds himself also reclined on the blanket, arms folded behind his head, watching a small, lone cloud pass overhead. He wishes he could turn his mind from serious matters, but no pleasant daydreaming or meditation ever comes to him. He thinks of all the reports he needs to complete from their most recent mission, the requisitions he needs to sign off for, all the minor tedium waiting for him at his desk. Yorsashi, peaking at him briefly from his dozing, must see something in his expression, speaking up.

 

“Staldar?”

 

“Mm.”

 

“If you could be anything, what would you be?”

 

“... I already don’t follow…”

 

Yorsashi rolls onto his side, watching Staldar.

 

“If you could do anything else, what would you do? Or… or do you  _ want _ to be a soldier?”

 

Staldar sits up, brow furrowing, before looking to Yorsashi with a skeptical look.

 

“I don’t spend time thinking of such things. It’s not about wanting or not, I simply  _ am  _ a soldier… Why? Is this often on your mind?” 

 

“Sometimes. I find myself wondering how things could be if… well, if things were different.” Something somber touches Yorsashi’s tone, but then he lets out a small, amused snort. “I guess I thought that, since you like hypotheticals so much… but you’re too practical for this type of hypothetical.”

 

“The purpose of this line of thinking escapes me, this is true. But I’m curious what conclusion you’ve come to for yourself.”

 

Yorsashi suddenly rolls to his other side, hiding his face.

 

“Ah, well… I’m not sure of different trades or careers or anything, but sometimes I think about-- I mean, it could be nice one day to settle down. You know, have someone to come home to, make a life with. Start a family. Whatever that may look like.”

 

The back of Staldar’s neck burns and his chest constricts, hearing this from Yorsashi, and he’s angry the smaller dragonborn has such sway over his emotions. A slew of irrational thoughts and feelings well up in him: bitterness towards this theoretical partner, grief that he can’t simply profess on bended knee and fulfill this wish. Guilt for these greedy and selfish thoughts. He’s relieved Yorsashi is not facing him, because he’s sure his mask breaks for a second. He clears his throat.

 

“I… did not know you desired a family in that way.”

 

Yorsashi turns over again, looking up at the sky, much like Staldar had been before.  _ ‘His eyes are the same exact blue.’ _

 

“I didn’t really either, until… Do you remember that little dragonborn babe we crossed paths with on our way to investigate some lead, months ago? The one that tripped and scraped his knee in the middle of the street?”

 

“Mm. He was bronze, I think. I don’t quite remember. He started to cry.”

 

“Right. And you remember what we did?”

 

“Your attempts to comfort him were extremely unsuccessful.”

 

“... I don’t know about  _ extremely _ unsuccessful… But then what did  _ you _ do?”

 

Staldar thinks back on that moment, remembering Yorsashi’s panicked expression as the child bawled into his tiny fists. He remembers sighing and shaking his head, coming up behind Yorsashi (fruitlessly cooing and  hushing the child placatingly), placing a large, gloved hand on the green dragonborn’s shoulder before lowering himself to the child’s level, pulling out a handkerchief and holding it out for the youngling.

 

“Here, child. Dry your tears and clean yourself up.” His tone was not unkind, but there’s no mistaking an order from someone like Staldar. The child’s sobs ceased briefly, wide-eyed, unsure, but he accepted the handkerchief with a sniffle.

 

“I-i-it hu-hurts,” he whimpered back, little hiccoughs causing him to stutter. Staldar remembers, with some amusement, how the child kept using their sleeve to wipe their tear stained face, ignoring the clean handkerchief.

 

“The pain will pass. Where are your guardians, child?”

 

“The m-muh-market.”

 

“Good. Put on a brave face, stand and dust yourself off, and go to them. I’m sure they’re wondering where you are.” He proffered a big, gloved claw out to the child to hold. Thinking back, Staldar is sure that the image of him-- a towering, fully armored soldier-- reaching out to a barely knee-high tot must have been a peculiar sight.

 

The child took a few deep breaths between sniffles, using Staldar to carefully pull himself to his feet. He finally used the handkerchief to start scrubbing his face, then his knee, hastily. Then he looked at the dirtied cloth with uncertainty, then held it up for Staldar to take. Staldar snorted, turning with a dismissive gesture.

 

“Keep it. Let’s go, Yorsashi, we’re already delayed as it is.”

 

“Oh! Yes!” Yorsashi hopped to his feet, started to follow, but then turned and gave the child a fond pat on the head with a smile. “Be careful, little one!”

 

“I gave him my handkerchief and told him to go to his parents,” Staldar summarizes his memory of the moment. Yorsashi huffs.

 

“Staldar, it was more than that. I didn’t say it then, I know how you feel about children, but you would make a very good father. I think that’s also what made you such a good S.O.”

 

“I don’t understand the connection. I made cadets into soldiers. That’s all.”   
  
“You made young upstarts into strong, independent adults. You always knew exactly what they needed to hear, even if it wasn’t what they wanted. That’s why your cadets respected you so much.”

 

“Many hated me,” Staldar sighs.

 

“Yes, because they were rebels who weren’t used to discipline. You were basically fathering a flock of… head-strong striplings. I’m sure many of them saw you as a father figure, as well.” Yorsashi fixes Staldar with a meaningful look and Staldar has to turn away.

 

“You’re romanticizing the situation. You never even knew me as an S.O.”

 

“I heard things, I know what I’m talking about. You know, some of them had crushes on you.” There’s a teasing cadence in his voice and Staldar burns with embarrassment.

 

“Oh, hush! Now you’re just being a heel.”

 

“It’s  _ true _ ,” Yorsashi insists, his voice light with laughter. “What, you think in all that time, not  _ one  _ of your impressionable little mentees fell for their stern, rugged mentor?”

 

“ _ Yorsashi! _ ” Staldar hisses in agitation, a cold steam pouring from between his barred teeth and nostrils.

 

“Sorry, sorry, I’ll stop teasing. Don’t go freezing the ocean over.” There’s little remorse in his voice, but Staldar knows the apology is sincere. His voice drops a little with a sigh. “It’s been a bit since we’ve been able to just…  _ talk _ . I don't mean to annoy you.”

 

Staldar heaves a big sigh as well, composing himself.

 

“We’ve been particularly busy recently. I must admit that I’m glad for the reprieve, no matter how brief. Our chats have always been a good distraction from…”   
  
“Everything?”

 

“Something like that, yes.”

 

Yorsashi sits up, and there’s a few moments of silence, both looking out onto the surf. The sun is no longer high, sinking lower and lower.

 

“Sorry, ah, you were making a point, and we derailed a bit,” Staldar murmurs. Yorsashi rubs the back of his neck embarrassedly.

 

“Oh, um, right… I was only trying to say, the little babe tugged at my heartstrings is all,” he laughs half-heartedly. Staldar knows there’s something being left unsaid, but doesn’t press. They’re quiet again, the sound of the ocean filling in the silence.

 

Yorsashi’s expression suddenly becomes excited, and he tugs on Staldar’s sleeve, causing the white dragonborn’s head to whip around in surprise. “Let’s swim! Can you even remember the last time you went swimming? The water is nice and calm today! Come on!”

 

Staldar takes in his hopeful expression and the insistent pull on his cuff, and something about that wide-eyed excitement makes a laugh burble from his chest.

 

“Gods, but you’re like a child begging to go to the fair.” Yorsashi laughs but doubles down.

 

“I’m serious! I haven’t been swimming in ages, and much less swimming in the  _ ocean _ .” He quickly stands and gestures broadly at the serene shoreline. “Have you ever seen the ocean so still as it is today?”

 

Staldar rises with a sigh, shaking some stray grains of sand from his body.

 

“Yes, I see, I see. However, a calm surface doesn’t mean the currents underneath aren’t strong, Yorsashi… but…”

 

“... Buuuuut…?”

 

Staldar begins unbuttoning his shirt.

 

“I’ll go with you.” Yorsashi cheers before darting straight toward the water before Staldar’s even finished his sentence. “Wait! Don’t go too-- Yorsashi, slow down!” Staldar clumsily chases him, shucking clothes as he goes. By the time he reaches the water, down to his skivvies, Yorsashi is already ducking under the water. “I mean it, don’t go too far out!  _ Yorsashi _ !”

 

The green dragonborn resurfaces with a splash and a joyful laugh.

 

“Tiamat’s tits, that’s brisk! Hurry up, Staldar, you’ll love it!” And with a quick gasp, he’s back under. Staldar runs into the surf, waist deep before Hekkras’ distant voice stops him, turning to look behind.

 

“Hey, you two! Watch yourselves, there’s a mean riptide just a few meters out!”

 

Fear seizes Staldar’s heart, and for a moment he’s frozen in the swell, staring at Hekkras’ back, the water gently tugging and pushing him. Then he lurches back into motion, quickly scanning the water’s surface for any sign of their archer. He sees nothing.

 

“Yorsashi!” A wave rolls into him. Quiet. “ _ Yorsashi! _ ” The tide pulls. Hush.

 

Before he’s even given it a thought, he’s running, then diving to the spot he last saw Yorsashi. And, as always, Yorsashi had been right. Under the right circumstances, Staldar would find the water refreshing, but in the moment, he barely feels a thing aside from the frantic pounding of his own heart. However, the water is simply too hazy to see much of anything.

 

He rises, and the water is still just shallow enough for his feet to barely brush the sea floor, but too deep to see. He catches his breath for a moment, looking around for any sign of Yorsashi once more. He opens his mouth and raises his hands to call out again, but a surprisingly violent wake breaks across his face, pushing him back and down, silencing him. As he tries to recover, he’s horrified to find there is no ground beneath him anymore.  _ ‘The dropoff,’ _ he realizes much too late. He barely has a moment to lament his careless mistake. He nearly rights himself, almost poised to resurface, but a force like nothing he’s ever felt before sucks at every square inch of him, and then there  _ is _ sand beneath him, scraping against his back as he’s dragged down. He’s rolled over by the current, and in a desperate bid to regain some control, he digs all of his claws into the sands, but it provides no purchase, his claws raking through the grains fruitlessly. ‘ _ We were fine just a moment ago. We were fine _ \--’

 

The hysterical thought is cut short when he slams into something hard and rough, a rockface jutting up, alive with sharp coral and barnacles. The last bit of air he’d been holding in is bashed out of his lungs in a rush of bubbles, mouth open in a cry of pain, smothered by rushing water.

 

Pressed and held down like trapped prey, with quickly dwindling strength, he scrabbles against the ragged reef, ignoring the way it cuts into even his scaly, calloused palms, the salt stinging, his blood carried away like red threads in the current. His lungs and muscles scream for oxygen. His vision restricts, fuzzy, dark, spots floating and fading.  _ ‘This isn’t how I thought I would go,’  _ the piece of his mind that isn’t panicking, that isn’t in pain, sighs.  _ ‘Not even a soldier’s death, then _ .’

 

Then he doesn’t think, or feel, at all for some time.

 

And then he feels quite a lot, all at once.

 

His chest, gut, throat, nose, ears, they all burn and some are cramping, too full. So his body rectifies this with a horrible tremor, heaving, an acrid fountain of salty, acidic, body-warmed ocean water bubbling from his throat and nose. He realizes he’s on his back, the water dribbling back down his neck as he gasps, coughing. His limbs are too heavy and hurting to turn onto his side. His ears, once blocked, seem to drain, and sound returns to him, a little more clear.

 

“Oh! Oh Gods, he’s breathing, oh thank fuck--”

 

“Don’t get excited yet. Major Drachenhearth, are you finally with us? Come on, open your eyes, let us know you’re not going to die here on the beach.”

 

Staldar struggles to comply, coughs wracking his frame, and a chill sets him to shivering. He cracks an eye open, wincing at the sun. He quickly shuts it again.

 

“He’s shaking like a leaf, here, wrap him and sit him up. Lying on his back isn’t doing him any favors.”

 

“Hells, he doesn’t even shiver like that in the dead of winter.”

 

Being bundled and propped up, pain blooming all across his body, Staldar opens his blurry eyes and finds his voice, a weak croak from behind chattering teeth.

 

“I s-swallowed…  _ fffffr _ eezing c-c-cold... s-seawater…” He coughs up a little more water, mouth, nose, and dry eyes dripping pitifully. “L-leeched all  _ mmm _ y… body heat… f-from ins-side…”  _ ‘And now it’s outside _ ,’ he thinks morbidly. Things start to come into focus, Yorsashi and Krax hovering close, Hekkras and Prith a little behind, giving them some space.

 

“Drink this,” Krax orders, forcing a canteen into his shaking hands. Staldar opens it, starts move as if to drink, then rethinks this.

 

“W-what--?”

 

“It’s just water, you fool. The salt water will have dehydrated you, and you just sicked up a good amount of fluids as well. Drink.”

 

Staldar nods, then knocks the water back in one long draught, until another coughing fit forces him to stop. Yorsashi thumps and rubs his back over the blanket, as if to warm him and help knock all the lingering water from his chest. His throat, lungs, and head all ache, head pounding especially, but the water does provide some relief from the salty, dried out feeling in his mouth and soothe his roiling stomach.

 

“Th-thanks,” he rasps, passing the empty canteen back, then curls around himself, teeth chattering. “ _ Fuck. _ ” Yorsashi’s touch goes from gentle and comforting to gruff, squeezing his shoulders sharply.

 

“What the in the hells were you  _ thinking?”  _ He demands sharply, expression full of fear and anger. “All that talk about the currents and you dove right out to the drop-off? Has too much sun made you  _ daft _ ?!”

 

Staldar, frankly, does not appreciate Yorsashi’s tone, not when when he’s already hurting, and recovering from his own fear that he had nearly lost the green dragonborn for good. He manages a meager growl, squeezing Yorsashi’s wrists in his own tremulous grasp. He manages to keep most of the tremble out of his hoarse voice.

 

“You dare ch-chide me for trying to save you f-f-from your own recklessness? You ran right into the wake and then didn’t resurface! What the fuck was I s-supposed to do?” Yorsashi looks surprised and slightly abashed, and Staldar faintly hears Prith gasp “oh shit, they’re fighting” to himself. Yorsashi shakes off the shock of Staldar’s retaliation, baring his own teeth, clenching his fists.

 

“So your solution was to throw yourself into the undertow and get yourself killed as well? What fucking good would that have done?”

 

“What sort of leader would I be if I didn’t even  _ try _ to help my team? I thought I--  _ we _ \-- were going to lose you!”

 

“Well,  _ I _ really did almost lose you, so shut the hells up and let me be angry at you!” And something breaks in his voice as he says it, his jaw quivering, moisture welling in his eyes, but the anger remains. “I almost lost you and it was my fault so let me be angry, damn you!” He yanks a hand away to dash away the tears that gather, breath hitching fitfully. Staldar lets go as if burned, then fights the urge to take his hand back, try to comfort him.

 

“Nice work, Drachenhearth, you made him cry,” Prith says snidely.

 

“Enough with the dramatics, all of you! We need to get you back to the barracks, there’s not much else we can do for you here and you’re at risk of catching ill without proper treatment,” Krax asserts flatly. “And I imagine we’ll all have to file some kind of incident report, and I’ll be very surprised if we don’t lose leave privileges for some time.”

 

Prith and Hekkras both huff and groan, moving to pick up their belongings and redress. Yorsashi starts to get up, face still sad, and a little bit incensed. Krax, though trying to conceal it, is also irate.

 

Staldar feels a pang of guilt in his chest. ‘ _ I let them down. This is my fault. _ ’ In that moment, he makes a decision, and hastily staggers upright, ignoring the pain in his ribs and back. Yorsashi and Krax startle at the sudden movement, putting their hands out to steady him.

 

“No,” he says, voice like sandpaper. “N-no infirmary, no reports. We were allotted a full day, and I see no reason to forfeit that for my m-m-mistake. I’ll not have you all punished for my thoughtlessness. If I take ill, then it will be c-coincidence, but I’ll survive a few more hours outside of the barracks.”

 

“Staldar, you’re still shivering and the sun will set soon, what if you’re suffering from hypothermia--,” Yorsashi starts, but Staldar scoffs.

 

“Then build a  _ fff _ fire if you’re concerned. With the sun going down, we should get one going anyways.”

 

“Major, with all due respect, I think this is foolishness. I believe you underestimate how quickly your condition may deteriorate. For all we know you may have suffered brain damage from oxygen deprivation, not to mention bruising and internal bleeding,” Krax hisses out.

 

“Do I seem like I’m s-suffering from brain damage, right now? I might feel like sh-shit, but I’m not so c-c-compromised as that.” A breeze makes Staldar shiver a little harder, and he scans the beach. “Where are my c-clothes?”

 

“Here, grandpa,” Prith calls, tossing a his shirt and trousers to him. “And, not to take sides, but if Major Stick-up-his-ass is ignoring protocol, then something really is wrong. But I’m not keen on losing leave privileges when they’re so hard to get in the first place, so, I’ll defer to Grandad’s judgement.”

 

“Stop calling me that,” Staldar grumbles, quickly pulling his clothes on, ignoring the ocean grime dried to his scales.

 

“I could go back to calling you Daddy,” Prith grins.

 

“I’m trying to do a nice thing, don’t make me change my m-mind,” Staldar growls. “Look, if I suddenly take a t-t-turn for the worse, then we’ll head and I’ll go straight to the infirmary. But none of you deserve reprimand for something you had no part of. If anything, I owe all of you, so let’s just… keep this amongst ourselves as much as possible. If I can handle being s-skewered by arrows and blades, I can handle this.”

 

There’s a moment of quiet, all looking between one another, deliberating. Hekkras is the first to break away from the group.

 

“I’ll start on the fire,” he sighs, heading towards a cluster of nearby driftwood. Prith follows suit, trotting behind. Krax sighs.

 

“Very well. We’ll play it by ear, but the moment I think your condition has worsened, I will deem you unfit for command and we will head straight back to the garrison.” He fixes Staldar with a firm glare. Staldar, struggling to pull his sandy leggings up, grunts and waves a hand dismissively.

 

“Fine, fine.” He doesn’t bother setting himself to rights, shirt untucked and wrinkled, vest askew. His shivering lessens, but the chill lingers, and the heat of the day has since passed.

 

“Sit down, you look like you’re going to fall over any minute,” Yorsashi gripes. Staldar concedes, but winces as he bends, prompting Yorsashi to assist. “I can’t believe you’re just going to act like nothing just happened.”

 

“I hurt and feel terrible. As far as I’m concerned, little has changed.” Staldar coughs a little, clearing his throat, though it stings. “I’ll let you dote and mother hen all you like later,” he rasps with a rueful little smile. Yorsashi huffs, apparently not satisfied by this answer, but drops the subject.

 

“I’ll dote as I please  _ now _ , thank you very much,” he corrects, seating himself behind Staldar and wrapping him in a tight embrace. “You’re still shaking and it will take some time for them to gather enough wood for a proper fire. So I don’t want to hear any argument from you.”

 

If Staldar’s body weren’t so frigid from the inside-out, he knows he’d flush at the contact and protest. But the bone-deep chill and exhaustion and overall discomfort weaken his inhibitions, and he tiredly accepts the hold, resting his head on his knees. And it does help, feeling Yorsashi’s warmth seeping through layers of cloth. Before he realizes it, his eyes drift closed, but a little shake and the snapping of fingers has him alert again.

 

“None of that. If there’s even the smallest chance of you going comatose on us, I’m not risking it,” Krax intones. “You’ll have to stay awake if you can help it. If you fall unconscious, we’ll have no choice but to seek immediate medical attention.”

 

“Dammit. Fine. I might need a little help, but I can manage that.”

 

“I can distract you if you get too tired,” Yorsashi says. “I’d hate for you to strain your voice with needless chit-chat, but it may be the only way to keep you from nodding off.”

 

“I’ll be alright. If you’re worried about me losing my voice, you could make that tea like you made in the spring.”

 

“Perhaps. Elm bark tea with a spoonful of honey would be better, however,” Yorsashi hums thoughtfully. Staldar can’t contain his soft sound of disgust, and Yorsashi laughs. “Beggars can’t be choosers. You’ll be thanking me later when you still have your voice.”

 

There’s a moment of quiet, Krax having gone back to reading a few feet away, Prith and Hekkras starting to amass a fair amount of wood a little ways off. Staldar looks up, realizing something.

 

“How did I make it back to land? There’s no way any of you could fight that current.”

 

“You have Prith and Hekkras to thank for that. Prith used some pretty strong magic to manipulate the water, he nearly collapsed from the effort. He’s going to be tapped for a while. Then, as soon as he could manage it, Hekkras pulled you out, since he’s the only one strong enough, and performed some emergency first aid, mainly, trying to get the water out of your lungs and you breathing.” Yorsashi squeezes him through the blanket. “Without them, there’s nothing Krax or I could have done. We were so helpless.”

 

“I see,” Staldar croaks softly. “...I’ll see if I can’t pull a favor or two for them as thanks.”

 

“Apparently Prith is after some particularly pricey scrolls that the requisitions team keep denying him. Maybe you could pull a few strings there. And, well, Hekkras isn’t too hard to please.”

 

“Noted,” Staldar whispers. There’s a pause in conversation, and Staldar starts to lose his fight against sleep, but Prith and Hekkras make their way over, laden with wood and other provisions.

 

“Oh, glad you two apparently kissed and made up, I hate when mummy and daddy fight,” Prith goads, earning only a meek growl from Staldar and an annoyed sigh from Yorsashi. “But the sooner we get this fire going, the sooner we can  _ eat _ , because I brought--,” he plops the picnic basket he had packed for the day in front of everyone and begins to dig around. “These!” He holds up a flimsy pastry box, embellished with some pretty foil and the bakery’s namesake, a more upscale place of business.

 

“... Baked goods?” Hekkras snorts flatly, dumping his bundle of wood into a haphazard pile.

 

“No, not just any old pastries or what-have-you! These are something only the most skilled  pâtissiers and confectioners have on offer, as they are quite hard to make and make  _ well _ !” Prith opens the box and presents the contents, which are rows of fluffy white squares, held in place by delicate wax parchment. “Marshmallows!”

 

Only Krax seems to perk up at this. Hekkras rolls his eyes.

 

“What makes them so special?”

 

“For one thing, the ingredients are not particularly common. For another, they require a certain amount of precision to make and they are far too easy to ruin,” Krax informs with poorly concealed fervor. “... I would very much like one.”

 

“Patience, my dear, spooky toxicologist! Once the fire is going, I’m going to show you the true versatility of this tasty little delicacy and _ blow your godsdamned mind _ ,” Prith cheers gleefully, snapping the box shut.

 

The fire is quickly lit, after that, the group falling into their usual banter as dusk falls. Finally warmed through, surrounded by the voices of his companions, Staldar dozes for an indeterminate amount of time, but wakes upon feeling himself leaning, nearly tipping over completely. Yorsashi steadies him, or tries to.

 

“Sorry,” he murmurs hoarsely.

 

“It’s alright. I think we’re all a bit tired at this point,” Yorsashi replies quietly. “Here, try this.” He proffers a marshmallow out in front of Staldar, skewered and roasted on the end of a long stick. Staldar carefully pulls the melted morsel off the skewer with his teeth, and is immediately struck by the sweetness of it, the sweetest thing he had ever tasted. The sweet taste and texture pulls a surprised laugh from him, though it comes out as a wheeze, that devolves into a cough.

 

“Horrid.”

 

“ _ What? _ ”

 

“It’s too sweet. I see why you all would enjoy them.”

 

“Ugh, what a waste. I should have known better,” Yorsashi laments. Staldar laughs and coughs wetly, Yorsashi thumping his back firmly. “I don’t like the sound of your cough, but I don’t think we’ll be out much longer now. Soon we can get back and get some tea and a potion or something in you.”

 

The hum of conversation around them continues, but Staldar is struck by guilt once more at his friend’s persistent worry, the burden he had caused everyone.

 

“Forgive me.”

 

“Hm? Whatever for?”

 

“For causing you undo pain today. For ruining a day of relaxation for everyone,” he says morosely. “I hope you enjoyed yourself, at least a little bit. Everyone earned a break and some merriment for once.”

 

Yorsashi is quiet for a moment.

 

“I’m sorry for snapping at you, before. I didn’t mean to berate you like that. It was unfair of me to lash out at you, when I’m partly to blame as well.”

 

“Gods, you two are positively sickening. Can we all agree that that little incident is over and forgotten and it was nobody’s fault and move on, already? I’m over this pity-party shit. You’re all fucking welcome for a lovely day at the beach, saving your pale ass, and sharing my marshmallows by the way,” Prith exclaims, standing up. “Aaaand I’ve officially had enough of the beach. Can we go home now?”

 

Everyone concludes that, yes, they’ve all had enough of the beach for one day.

* * *

 


	22. No Sick Days

* * *

**_“No Sick Days”_ **

* * *

 

  
  


It was becoming clear to the others that, after their last mission, Staldar was not doing well. They had received a new assignment almost as soon as they had returned from a long, harrowing mission that was full of close calls. Staldar threw himself right into work once more, taking no time to recuperate, still travel-weary and weathered.

 

Staldar slowly stopped going through his daily drills, started taking meals alone while reviewing paperwork, and no one could say for sure if he was getting any sleep, though it was doubtful. The already deep set circles around his eyes darken, and while weight loss was to be expected out in the field, it was normally negligible and impermanent, but this was not the case with the white dragonborn.

 

Yorsashi finally confronts him.

 

Carrying a steaming bowl of soup, Yorsashi knocks gently before entering, shutting the door quietly behind himself. A corner of Staldar’s quarters has been converted into a kind of make-do study, and that’s where Yorsashi finds Staldar bent over a clutter of parchments, strewn out all around him. He doesn’t even look up, scribbling something before growling, crushing the sheet in his hands. He curses loudly, tossing the ruined paper in a fit.

 

“... Staldar…?” Yorsashi starts carefully, taking a step forward. Staldar’s head jerks up at the sound of his voice.

 

“Ah, Yorsashi, forgive me. I hadn’t heard you come in.”

  
  
“That’s rather unlike you. But here, I brought food. I wasn’t sure if you had eaten yet today.”

 

“Thank you. If you leave it on the desk I’ll eat in just a moment.” Staldar turns back to his task, scanning through his notes. Yorsashi places the bowl on the desk as instructed, but doesn’t leave, just watches Staldar closely. Staldar looks up again. “Was there something you needed?”

 

“... I wanted to know what you think of this soup. It’s a new recipe.”

 

“I’m sure it’s fine. You know I’m not picky.”

 

“I’d like to see you eat it anyways, please.”

 

Staldar puts down his notes with a sigh, before taking the bowl and taking a long gulp. He places the bowl back down firmly, looking to Yorsashi challengingly.

 

“It’s good, as I thought it would be. Are you quite satisfied?”

 

Yorsashi meets his gaze evenly.

 

“If it’s good, then it should be no problem to finish it. You’re a swift eater.”

 

“Yorsashi, you are testing my patience. Get out.”

 

“You can’t, can you? You can’t eat even that much. Don’t think we haven’t noticed all your half-finished or barely touched meals lately.”

 

“My diet is none of your concern. Don’t make me tell you again--!” Yorsashi ignores him, stepping forward and pressing a hand to Staldar’s cheek. Staldar snatches his hand away with a growl. “You are overstepping!”

 

“You’re burning up with fever, Staldar! And you’ve lost so much weight…”

 

“We all lost weight out there.”

 

“ _ We _ have started gaining our weight back.  _ You  _ are the thinnest I’ve ever seen you. Staldar, if you keep this up--”

 

“There’s nothing to be done about it, Yorsashi. This next mission is too important and the longer we take to perfect our plans, the more dangerous it becomes.”

 

“And what good are you on a dangerous mission if you are completely wasted away? You damned… You hypocrite. You fed me all that bullshit about being  _ compromised _ , but what do you call this, Staldar? You look like a strong breeze could do you in. That’s pretty fucking compromised.”

 

Staldar stands, suddenly, chair screeching across the floor. He moves as though prepared to force Yorsashi out, but he sways forward, stumbling. Yorsashi gasps and puts his hands out to steady Staldar. “See? You can barely stay upright. At the very least let a healer or…  _ someone,  _ anyone help you, even Prith or Krax might have  _ something _ \--”

 

Staldar pushes Yorsashi away before stepping around him towards the door, which he wrenches open, standing aside.

 

“You are dismissed.”

 

Yorsashi puffs up.

 

“I won’t be cowed by you again. Not when you’re slowly killing yourself. I’ll report you as unfit for duty, Staldar, don’t think I won’t.”

 

They stare one another down for a beat, one waiting for the other to cave. Staldar slowly shuts the door again.

 

“What would you have me do? These rogue alchemists are a continually growing threat and we still don’t have a way to deal with them that won’t endanger everyone.”

 

“And how clearly are you thinking, running on what I’m guessing is little to no sleep, little to no food, and ill no less? You’re telling me you can make such important decisions under these conditions?”

 

“My job is to make decisions in  _ any _ conditions, sick, starved, exhausted--”

 

“Unconscious?  _ Dead _ ? Because that’s where you seem to be headed, Staldar. I mean it, I’m not above having you forcibly taken to the infirmary, Prith and the others will support me in this--”

 

Staldar snorts derisively.

 

“Of course  _ he _ would.”

 

“Oh, fuck you! You don’t get to be jealous, you gave up that right.”

 

“He’s selfish, Yorsashi, he’s just--”

 

“Like you’re any better! At least he’s  _ kind _ to me!” Staldar is stunned into silence, Yorsashi’s words striking like a dagger. The green dragonborn’s eyes shimmer with unshed tears, gaze still boring right through him. “... If I don’t see improvement in a few days, I’ll go through with the report. I’ll know if you don’t start eating and sleeping properly. You can’t carry on this way. I can’t… I can’t watch you carry on like this.” Yorsashi’s voice goes very quiet, voice thick with emotion. He swallows, turns, and leaves, shutting the door behind him softly.

 

Staldar slowly shuffles back over to his desk, dropping into his seat. After a moment of staring blankly at all the parchment in front of him, words and etchings swimming and slithering around on the pages before his eyes, he turns to the bowl of soup, still warm, waiting to be eaten. He knocks it back in one long gulp. It tastes like ash and makes his stomach roil in protest. But he holds it down.

 

He doubts he’ll be able to sleep for some time.

 

Outside, in the blue dragonborn’s quarters, Prith holds Yorsashi while he cries into his shoulder.

 

Yorsashi doesn’t see the corners of his mouth curl up as he whispers words of comfort into his ear.

* * *

 


	23. Deadly Sins

 

* * *

**_“Deadly Sins”_ **

* * *

  
  


He’s made his bed. So he lays in it.

 

He lays in it when Yorsashi starts sitting by Prith when they take meals, when Prith leans over and whispers something to him, earning a blush and a nudge, a shy smile. He lays in it when they steal quick looks, not-so-subtle caresses, their shared laughter.

 

He lays in it when the brightness leaves Yorsashi’s eyes when he remembers Staldar is right there, politely clearing his throat and putting on the mask of composure. He lays in it when Prith doubles down on his affections, eyes catching Staldar’s, eyes full of victory.

 

He chose this. He chose this outcome. This is the way things would simply have to be. So he can endure it, he tells himself.

 

And then he accidentally breaks an inkwell in his hand when Yorsashi laughs a little too loudly at one of Prith’s whispered jokes at the war table. The startled quiet after the little  _ crack  _ of glass in his palm is deafening. Slowly releasing the shards, ink spilling between his fingers, spreading in an oozing circle over the map (and thoroughly ruining it), he clears his throat, avoiding everyone’s eyes.

 

“... Let us adjourn briefly then, while I fix this. Fifteen minutes,” he intones flatly, pulling out a handkerchief with his clean hand. The others share confused glances for a moment before getting up to take their leave one by one. But Hekkras lingers, eyes trained on Staldar’s face, watching him try to wipe the ink from his hands. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, simply observing, and Staldar ignores him, or tries to, picking tiny glass splinters out of his fingers, until he hears a snort of derision.

 

“Was there something you need to discuss, Hekkras,” Staldar grumbles, flicking away the final little shard. Only two had managed to draw blood, tiny pinpricks starting to bead up. He untacks the map from the table, rolling the soaked parchment up. There’s already a stain forming in the wood beneath.

 

“Need? No. Want? Sure,” Hekkras grunts. He pushes his feet against the floor, letting the chair he sits in tilt precariously back, rocking back and forth, a habit of boredom and restlessness. “I don’t get why you still let that little  _ slag _ get to you.”

 

Staldar stops in his tracks, blinking in surprise. It’s bait, he knows it to be, but still,  _ still,  _ he feels his pulse jump, anger rising in his throat. He looks over his shoulder slowly, eyes narrowed.

 

“Choose your next words carefully, Bellren,” Staldar growls quietly. “I’m not interested in your games, today.”

 

“What you see in that green bitch, I’ll never know, Drachenhearth. So fucking what, he finally got the memo that you’re not gonna put out, and what did he do? Hopped on the next willing dick he could find,” Hekkras continues, gesturing crudely. Staldar lurches a step forward, ears starting to rush with blood, teeth and fists clenched.

 

“You don’t know what the hells you’re talking about!” Staldar hisses, seething. “You have no godsdamned idea what happened, and it’s not your fucking business to begin with!”

 

“It’s my business when you’re so busy bleeding out, crying over a prissy little flake and his leech of a fuck-buddy, that you can’t even do your fucking duty properly. Fuck’s sake, man, get a grip!” Hekkras sits up in his seat, dropping his nonchalance.

 

“Mind your place! You cannot speak to me like this, and I will not let you slander the rest of your team this way, Bellren. Get the fuck out!” Staldar’s voice rises, and he wishes he could keep the tremble of rage out of his limbs, muscles tensing. His temple throbs. Hekkras smiles then, a smug, knowing smile.

 

“You wanna know just what kind of fella your sweet little Yorsashi is? What’s it say about a guy who, when he can’t get what he wants, his second choice is the notorious slut about town, the guy  _ everyone _ ’ _ s _ gone a round with? Got so tired of the chase, he said ‘ _ fuck it _ ,’ hah!” Hekkras crows. Staldar starts to retort, but Hekkras speaks up again, still smiling. “Hey, wanna know a secret? ‘Cuz maybe ol’ Sa-shi-mi,” he mocks Prith’s cadence, his pet name for Yorsashi, “ain’t what you made him out to be in your head. He definitely ain’t all that, and here’s why: Prith might be giving him the sweet treatment, playing house or whatever, but you wanna know who’s door he knocks on in the wee hours, who’s dick he’s riding when ‘Sashi’s not feeling frisky? Mine—”

 

Staldar doesn’t think, doesn’t let him finish, just socks Hekkras so hard across the mouth he’s sure he’s broken a finger, putting his whole body behind it. Hekkras nearly falls from the chair, head whipping back, but Staldar grabs him by the collar of his shirt, and hauls him to his feet.

 

“Shut your  _ fucking  _ mouth!” Staldar roars, shoving him back. Hekkras stumbles back, wiping an arm across his mouth, blood almost masked against his red tint. He still grins wide, a chuckle reverberating in his chest. “Shut your filthy damned mouth or I’ll shut it for you, you  _ filthy _ —!”

 

“You’re just as pathetic, pining for a _whore’s_ _whore_ —!” Staldar lunges, nearly raking his claws across Hekkras’ face, but Hekkras is expecting it this time, catching his wrist, flinging him back. Staldar’s back hits the edge of the table as he barely manages to find purchase, staying upright. Hekkras steps forward. “It’s about time you fucking acted like a damn soldier and either get over it, or do something about it.”

 

“Piss off,” Staldar barks, moving to shove past Hekkras, but Hekkras quickly body checks him, pushing him back.

 

“Nah,” Hekkras laughs, blood still dripping from his mouth. “You need a reality check, Major. And I’m givin’ it to ya.” He throws a punch into Staldar’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. “And frankly, I’ve been craving a good old brawl.”

 

“F-fucking psychopath,” Staldar wheezes, bent double, but quickly straightens up to tackle him, ramming the both of them back into the wall. “You absolute psychopath,” he pants.

 

“You swung first, asshole,” Hekkras grunts. “You pretend like you don’t got any emotions, like you’re above it all, but I know you. I know you’re quietly boiling inside, holding in all that jealousy and anger. You'll fucking die before you admit you've ever felt a feeling in your damn life. Now who sounds like a psychopath?" Hekkras throws a quick jab, and Staldar takes it in the eye with a shout of pain. Almost immediately it's swollen shut, tender and painful, blinded.

 

" _ Fuck _ you," he  spits. He tries to punch back, but he's getting sloppy, shaky, and is now blind in one eye— Hekkras just grabs his arm and twists hard. Staldar is forced to follow through the movement, turning so his arm doesn't break. In one swift motion, Hekkras has the white dragonborn pinned to the wall. Staldar just snarls and struggles against him, nearly feral. In answer, Hekkras pulls him back and slams him forward, knocking the wind out of him again, nose bashing into the stone painfully. He starts to sag in Hekkras’ grip, only the wall and Hekkras himself keeping him upright, a trickle of blood spilling from his nose.

 

“You’re angry underneath, but you know what you are, on the outside? Tired, pops.You keep up your bullshit, you’ll get relieved of your duty entirely.” Hekkras rumbles into his ear, low and threatening. His own blood and spit drips from his mouth onto Staldar’s shirt collar. A rush of commotion and footsteps can be heard down the hall. “You got a choice to make, old man. You can keep sulking and stewing and feeling shitty, or you can let it go and actually move on, not this pretending shit. Or, maybe, you get your head out of your ass, stop being such a damn martyr, and fight for the things you want, like a grown fucking man.”

 

“What the hells happ— Hekkras, Gods, get off him, what the fuck!” Prith rushes in and promptly stops in his tracks, taking in the scene, before stepping in and shoving Hekkras back. Hekkras simply puts his hands up and backs away with a snort.

 

“I was done anyways.”

 

“ _ Done _ ? Done  _ what _ , trying to kill him? Do I need to call the rest of the guard on you?!”

 

Without Hekkras holding him up, Staldar’s knees buckle and he slides down the wall, leaving a trail of ink and blood, breathing hard. His head swims, he’s exhausted, but he still shakes with unfettered wrath.

 

“Whatever, he threw the first punch. I was just defending myself.”

 

“‘Self defense’ my ass, you made  _ him _ look like a crime scene and  _ you _ hardly need a bandage. If he hit first, you probably deserved it. Ugh, come on, upsy-daisy Major, let’s get you over to medical.” Prith leans down, carefully pulling at Staldar’s elbow.

 

The touch makes Staldar’s skin crawl and his hackles raise. Images of Prith’s hands on Yorsashi, on Hekkras, and he wants to fight all over again, still full of venom and vitriol. He thinks of how good it would feel, just once, to watch Prith bleed.

 

“Get your hands off me,” He growls and shaking out of Prith’s hold, ignoring the sound of confusion, using the wall to slowly pull himself off the ground. He’s unsteady, but up, so he wastes no time shouldering past Prith and Hekkras, but then Yorsashi and Krax appear in the doorway, alarmed. Yorsashi gasps, blinking in surprise, while Krax makes a disgruntled sound, narrowing his eyes at the evidence of violence.

 

“Did you two get into another row? How vulgar,” Krax snears, side-stepping to examine the flecks of blood and ink spattered about, furniture in disarray. Yorsashi steps forward and reaches up to Staldar’s face.

 

“Oh, your eye—!”

 

Like a flash, Staldar slaps Yorsashi’s hand away.

 

“ _Do_ _not touch me_ ,” He hisses between clenched teeth, before taking a deep breath, glaring down with his good eye. “You gave up that right,” he parrots back at him coldly.

 

He almost relishes the stricken look that flickers over Yorsashi’s face.

 

Almost.

 

He storms past, holding his middle, heading to his private quarters.

 

“Staldar, you’re injured, you need—,” Krax calls out, trying to follow, but Staldar stops and wheels around on him, looming.

 

“What I  _ need _ is for you all to kindly  _ fuck off _ ,” Staldar spits, icy mist spilling from between his teeth, pouring from his nostrils in wisps. He ignores how the blood on his nose freezes, a hardened droplet falling to the floor like a bead, rolling across the hardwood. Krax stops in his tracks, taken aback. The rest stare from down the hall, all in various states of shock and confusion, except for Hekkras, who smirks.

 

Staldar turns and continues to stalk to his room, slamming the door behind himself.

 

He stands for a moment, shoulders rising and falling, hands shaking. Finally alone, he feels strange, realizes that the pain feels far away, like it doesn’t belong to him, adrenaline making everything feel dull around the edges.  _ ‘I’m going to be in pain again soon,’  _ he thinks, but finds he doesn’t actually care. He turns to the mirror Prith had insisted he have in his room, claiming ‘no room is complete without one, really.’

 

He’s truly a sight to take in, the top button of his shirt missing, clothes askew, stained with blood and ink smeared seemingly at random. His eye has already begun to turn a vivid spectrum of red and purples.

 

A strange feeling wells up in him, and he smiles, baring his bloodied teeth at himself. And then he laughs, laughs from endorphins and how scary he looks, like a stranger, nothing like himself. But it’s not  _ wrong _ , in fact, he finally looks how he feels, outside matching the inside. He laughs, laughs until his ribs start to hurt all over again, grin making his eye twinge and ache.

 

And like a switch is flipped, he’s angry again, but this time, he has no one to direct it at, no body to inflict his rage upon.

 

Noone but himself.

 

He clenches a hand and without a second thought, his fist meets his reflection, fracturing it into a hundred sharp edges, spider-web cracks appearing in the reflective glass. Somehow, every piece stays perfectly in place in its frame. He drops his hand, bruised knuckles smarting.  _ ‘That’s what I think of your stupid fucking mirror.’ _

 

All at once, all the rage, the hysteria, the wild influx of emotion drains from him, and he’s empty again. He just hurts all over. He’s not just tired from the fight, from the stress of the day, he’s tired of  _ everything _ .

 

He shuffles to his desk, shoving aside a stack of parchment, and sits. He lays his face down on the cool wood and sighs. He doesn’t want to think anymore. He doesn’t want to feel.

 

_ ‘I’m going to lose my team. I’m going to lose them. I’m going to lose everything,’  _ he thinks darkly.  _ ‘And I can’t even bring myself to care.’ _

 

Except, he thinks of Yorsashi.

 

_ ‘Am I really okay with letting him go? Is it even possible for me?’ _

 

He doesn’t have the answer. He closes his other eye. Without really meaning to, he falls into a stupor, and then after some time, sleeps.

 

When he wakes again, it’s dark, and his neck hurts like bitch. He’s also covered by a thin blanket that he doesn’t remember pulling over himself. He tries to think if he remembered to lock the door and realizes he certainly hadn’t. He’s surprised he hadn’t woken at the sound of someone entering his room, usually an exceptionally light sleeper.

 

A potion sits nearby on the desk, with a note. ‘It’s just a healing potion. Drink it. — Krax’

 

He snorts and starts to push the potion aside but he… really hurts. His head pounds, eye throbbing, every breath making his ribs ache. So he tosses it back, and is flooded with relief, or at least, enough that he can think clearly again. His eye still feels bruised, but he can open it again without too much pain.

 

He sits for a moment, not entirely sure what to do with himself. The stack of scrolls and papers grabs his attention, and with a sigh, he lights a candle and pulls the pile of documents towards himself.

 

There’s a part of him that whispers and wonders ‘ _ what’s even the point? Why bother?’ _ He ignores it and pulls out a quill and sets to work.

 

He could act like everything would be alright for a bit longer. He could still be a leader.

 

The fox could bite and claw all it wanted. He’d never let it out.

 

If it was going to kill him, so be it.

 


	24. Lockdown

* * *

**_“Lockdown”_ **

* * *

 

  
  


Staldar is bewildered.

 

In a few short hours, he’s clapped in irons, locked and barred in his own room, guards posted throughout their barracks, all of their lives coming to a stand still.

 

“Major Staldar Drachenhearth, you are hereby under arrest for accusations of theft, conspiracy against the Praetor and her Council, and subsequently, treason. While investigations are being conducted, you are to be detained, confined to your quarters, until it is seen fit to release or transfer you.”

 

Fearing what repercussions could come from pressing the issue, Staldar cooperates, much to the confusion of his team. Krax, oddly enough, is the only one to question the guards, grilling them about what they know, how this came to be, where the accusations came from. They reveal nothing.

 

So, Staldar waits in his room, sitting on the edge of his bed, dolefully rubbing each wrist painfully, weighted by heavy, tight-fitting manacles.

 

“What in the Nine Hells do they expect me to do with guards all over the damned place, in the middle of the garrison?” He grumbles half-heartedly. He considers trying to get some work done (out of hope that this entire incident would simply blow over, as it should), the mountain of documents at his desk mocking him, but the chains mock him far more loudly.

 

Instead, he turns to the tome he had borrowed from the library. The long-winded book details various nuances surrounding evocation, and, while informative, and with little else to keep him preoccupied, Staldar finds himself dozing, in spite of the chains.

 

An abrupt knock on the door causes him to startle awake, open book held to his chest. Before he can clear his throat to give permission to enter, a guard steps through, stiff and mechanical.

 

“You have ten minutes.”

 

“Thank you,” Krax’s soft voice comes from behind the door, as he breezes past the guard.

 

“Any news? What the hell is going on?” Staldar’s voice is gruff from sleep, and he realizes he’s been out much longer than he thought. He scrubs his tired eyes, wincing at the rattle of the chains, legs hanging over the side of the bed.

 

“None yet,” Krax replies. The guard shows himself out. “They won’t tell us anything. Only that an investigation is underway.”

 

Staldar growls and rubs his aching wrists again. He can’t decide if he’d prefer them looser or not; too loose and they would shift and bump uncomfortably, but tight as they are, his fingers feel cold and his joints twinge. Krax takes notice, stepping forward quickly, taking Staldar’s hands and examining the manacles. He huffs.

 

“When were you going to tell me about your rheumatism? I’m more than capable of treating it.”

 

“I don’t have rheumatism,” Staldar grunts, taking his hands back. “It’s these manacles. They’re not exactly comfortable.  _ Tch _ . Never thought I’d ever be the one wearing them.”

 

“You do have rheumatism and if you don’t do something about it, it’s only going to get worse. All it takes is a little bee venom to ease the pain and inflammation,” Krax chides. “I’ll see if they can do something about the cuffs. These obviously weren’t meant for wrists as wide as yours.” Staldar just sighs, wiping both hands down his face. He’s still tired.

 

“I don’t doubt you, but I’m not letting you inject me with bee venom…”

 

Staldar picks the book up off the bed and places it back on his shelf. Looking over to his desk, he frowns at the stack of parchments await his attention, listlessly flipping through. Requisition, requisition, report, requisition, report…

 

“Don’t tell me you intend on trying to complete all those while in shackles? They can’t possibly expect you to be turning in paperwork under these conditions.”

 

“There’s little else for me to do, until this-- this  _ farce  _ ceases. I don’t know what it is they’re looking for or what they think they’ll find,” Staldar bemoans. Krax shifts uncomfortably, jaw tight, arms behind his back.

 

“Staldar… I have no evidence to suspect such, but I fear this may not simply blow over,” Krax begins carefully. “You heard the guard earlier. They’re talking about  _ treason _ . Even if this doesn’t go to trial, rumor will spread, and there will be consequences for you, regardless. But, for now, it’s safer to presume a trial will occur.”

 

Staldar growls in frustration, balling his hands into fists, leaning with his knuckles against the desk.

 

“They can’t punish me for a crime I did not commit. If this, by some happenstance, goes to trial, what evidence will they have besides hearsay? And I have alibis in all of you,” Staldar says firmly, but when he looks up at Krax, his eyes are uncharacteristically downcast, face closed off, and Staldar feels a cold jolt of fear. “There’s something you’re not telling me.” Krax winces very slightly, teeth flashing for a second.

 

“Major… The others… There is doubt of your innocence in them,” he says quietly. Staldar’s heart sinks, confused and hurt by this admission. He feels drained, suddenly.

 

“You think they won’t defend me, should the need arise?”

 

“Prith and Hekkras likely won’t, but I don’t find this surprising. Yorsashi is… reticent. In shock, perhaps. He’s barely spoken to any of us these past few hours. I fear his faith is badly shaken.”

 

Staldar is dizzy, blood leaving his face. His thoughts race, none of them reassuring or hopeful. What had felt like a strange, unlikely mishap before now felt like impending disaster. So few alibis. Treason. He’d serve the rest of his life imprisoned. He would die, old and alone, in a cell.

 

He would never see Yorsashi again.

 

“Hey! Calm down or you will pass out,” Krax interjects, breaking this downward spiral of thought. Staldar realizes his breathing had become shallow, claws gouging the wood of the desk.

 

“I’m calm,” he rasps, dropping down into the chair beside him.

 

“You’re not calm, you’re panicking. Listen to me, Staldar, you cannot lose control now. Everything you do will either work for you or against you now. If you show anyone your fear, uncertainty, hesitation, you will only cement your guilt in everyone’s minds,” Krax says firmly, grasping his forearm tightly. The gesture is grounding, pulling Staldar further into the present, tethering him. “Do you understand?” Staldar nods, breathing in slowly.

 

“I understand. But if you didn’t want me to panic, why are you telling me all of this?”

 

“I started to worry that I may not get another chance to warn you. I thought if I told you now, it would be easier to remain calm later, should things truly take a turn for the worst. You always say you need to be prepared for every possible outcome.”

 

This is true enough. He would never have foreseen this. For all but one of his team to have lost confidence in him… For Yorsashi’s loyalty to falter…

 

Maybe he’s not as surprised as he first thought.  _ ‘I don’t blame him _ .’ It still hurts more than he wants to acknowledge.

 

The door creaks open.

 

“Your time is up, Major,” the guard says, almost bored sounding. Krax makes a face of disdain.

 

“Very well. I’ll do what I can for you, Staldar, but you must be very careful now. Don’t act recklessly and end up in the gaol for crimes you didn’t commit,” he hisses, pulling his hand away. Staldar lurches, catching the edge of his sleeve.

 

“Tell Yorsashi to come see me, if they’ll allow it. Please.”

 

Krax is quiet for a moment, before nodding.

 

“I will pass on the sentiment.”

 

“Thank you. For everything.”

 

“Don’t thank me yet,” Krax says blandly, smoothing out his uniform, walking out stiffly, barely hiding a sneer as he passes the guard. The door clicks shut, locking.

 

Staldar is alone again. He waits at his desk. He doesn’t finish any paperwork like he’d thought to do, fraught with terrible anticipation. He waits.

 

Yorsashi does not come.

 

In the wee hours of the night, he is finally collected by a squadron of guard, escorted to a proper holding cell. Evidence of his treason had been brought forward, and his court martial was to be announced.

 

In the cell, they remove the manacles. He’d gladly wear the painful, heavy manacles if it meant he didn’t have to be so alone.

* * *

 


	25. Learn to be Lonely(er)

* * *

**_“Learn To Be Lonely(er)”_ **

* * *

 

  
  


His life ends with the bang of a gavel.

 

At least, that’s what it had felt like, as though the hammer of false justice shattered his entire world into pieces and scattered him to the wind.

 

Except he’s whole (minus a few scales or so). He’s whole and housed and… “fine” isn’t the right word. Neither is “well.” He still exists. He continues to draw breath.

 

His first week in his little room, clean but bare, he feels strangely feral. A cocktail of paranoia, despair, and grief keeps him from sleeping, turning over and over the accounts of the trial in his head: what enemy had he made that wanted him gone so badly, why him, how did they produce such evidence?

 

Why had all but one of his team kept so quiet? Why hadn’t Yorsashi…?

 

He thinks he knows the answer to that one, but it hurts too much to consider.

 

Something between apprehension and shame keeps him from leaving the room, not that he knows where he would go even if he did leave. Often, he just sits by his window, watching the street below passively, watching the sun rise and fall, the phases of the moons. Everyone is busy. Everyone walks with such purpose.

 

He feels like the trains, derailed, stalled. His direction in life had been so clear, until it wasn’t. His own engineers and conductors had abandoned him. His wheels spin, but there’s no traction, nothing to hold onto. There’s anticipation in him for a command that never comes. “ _ No directive. No directive. No directive, no directive, no directive no directive no-- _ ”

 

He blinks, breathing hard. He becomes aware of pain in his hand, grounding him in the present. He had clenched his fist so hard that his claws pierced his own palm, four red beads swelling in a line.

 

He stands quickly to deal with the welling blood, but he sways, his vision narrows, and he is forced to catch himself on the window frame. The moment passes and he finds his balance, vision clearing, though he still feels light-headed, weak. There’s a slight tremble that he can’t steel himself against. He gives in. Appetite or not, he needs to eat.

 

New directives. Bind hand. Eat.

 

He looks at the smear of blood on the window frame. Bind hand. Clean window frame. Eat.

 

He ends up sacrificing a handkerchief to the mess and to staunch the seeping blood, flow a bit sluggish, dehydrated. While not ideal, it works for the moment. Gambeson belted on (perhaps a little tighter than usual), hand loosely bound, Staldar stands in front of his door and finds himself hesitating. Grasping the doorknob, he realizes something strange.

 

He is fearful.

 

Staldar has never been alone. Not in any meaningful way. He grew up under the keen eye and firm hand of the guard, surrounded by others at nearly all times. Every aspect of his life had been decided for him, and deviating had consequences. He understands, in the back of his mind, that lamenting the end of such a life is daft, even pathetic. No one in their right mind would grieve the end of their own subjugation.

 

He craves structure. He craves purpose.

 

He feels strangely small, frozen in front of the door. Small and weak and broken. Filkiati sits propped in a corner, untouched, along with his armor. He knows that he can summon his sword with merely a thought, the flex of his hand, but could he wield it in his current state?

 

He starts to turn from the door, but a sudden  _ knock knock knock _ makes him tense, startled. He stands still, waiting to see if it was perhaps a mistake, but a second pair of soft raps on the wood says otherwise. With a sigh, gently turning the knob, he opens the door just enough to face whoever is on the other side.

 

Dressed in a plain tunic and slightly mussed apron, a little half-elf stands before him, hair pulled into a loose, nest-like sort of bun, blonde like the sands of the cliffside beaches. They have that fairness and glow that all elves seem to possess, forever youthful and sweet, though not so tall or lithe. Their posture is shy, apologetic, but open and warm all the same. They hold a little glass measuring cup in their thin hands. Staldar certainly doesn’t recognize them, and the half-elf seems both surprised that he answered the door and that  _ he  _ answered the door.

 

“... Yes?” The word comes out raspy from disuse,and Staldar is suddenly aware he hasn’t said a single word to anyone in days. He clears his throat. “Can I help you?”

 

“A-ah, good afternoon! I hope I didn’t disturb you, but I’m afraid I was preparing some dough and found myself short on flour. I would go to the market but I’m rather a mess. I came to ask, if you have any, would you spare a cup? You could help yourself to some of the loaf, once it’s done!” Their little voice quavers just the tiniest bit, but Staldar senses their sincerity. Something in their earnestness makes him uneasy, caught off guard.

 

“I’m sorry, I don’t have any at the moment…”

 

“Oh, well, thank you anyways Mister--”

 

“Major Staldar--,” he catches himself and is conflicted for a moment. But a memory surfaces of one of his fellow officers tapping the symbol of rank embroidered into the stole draped over his armor.  _ “Diamonds are forever, Staldar,” _ he had said with a wink. At the time, Staldar had thought very little of such a statement. Staldar knew very well that even diamonds, with enough heat and pressure, decay over time. But now, he thinks he understands. “Major Staldar Drachenhearth… at your service.”

 

“Sinead, at yours,” they chirp, proffering a hand to shake. Staldar starts to return the gesture, but quickly tries to pull his hand back, realizing he had bled through the thin material of the handkerchief. Before he can hide the wound, Sinead has his large hand gently clasped in their much smaller one with a quiet sound of concern, turning his palm this way and that to examine the punctures through the thin linen.

 

“That looks rather painful. Would you like me to rebind this? I have some proper bandages, perhaps a little salve to ease any discomfort; it would only take but a moment!”

 

A tall, gruff dragonborn being so utterly overwhelmed by such a kindly waif of a person sounds absurd, but it is the truth of the matter-- Staldar finds himself reeling, unsure how to react. Something in him tells him to be wary, that something is expected of him, that this comes with a price. ‘ _ They’re just a slight little thing,’  _ another part of him reasons. ‘ _ What have you to fear other than your own thoughtless mouth?’ _ He mumbles out a feeble reason to cut this interaction short.

 

“I… should be going, the market won’t be open much longer, so--,”

 

“Oh! Well, um, if you’re going to the market anyways-- I mean, I could fix this up for you quickly, and then if you brought back some flour… A favor for a favor?” They beam up at him with a hopeful look, hugging their measuring cup close to their chest. “Like I said, we could have some tea and fresh bread!” An uncertain look crosses their face. “Ah, er, dragonborn like bread, right…?”

 

The question takes Staldar completely by surprise, and sparks a little shocked mirth in him. Of course this half-elf has no idea what a dragonborn eats; he’s likely the first one they have ever met, let alone seen. Something a little light-headed and hysterical burbles in him and he chuckles, and then laughs outright. He has to lean against the doorframe, a little dizzy from the emotional whiplash.  _ ‘You’re losing it. Senile. Mad.’ _ Sinead goes pink in the cheeks, apparently embarrassed at their own ignorance, but giggles along. Their freckled nose wrinkles just a little when they laugh. “Sorry, sorry, now that seems like such a silly question.”

 

“No, not at all,” he rumbles, clearing his throat again, sobering. “You said you need flour?” Sinead nods eagerly.

 

“Yes, yes, but please, before you go out, let me redress your hand!” Staldar lets himself be led, Sinead gently tugging him down the hall. “When Miss Estella told me I had a new neighbor, I almost didn’t believe her. You’ve been so quiet and scarce! I feel a smidge guilty for not giving you a proper welcome...”

 

Sinead rambles happily at him, rewrapping the hand. His little room smells like cinnamon and cardamom and a myriad of aromatic herbs. The room is filled with potted plants, books, etchings and notes, various bottles and baubles. It should feel cluttered, the room is not particularly spacious, but it becomes apparent that everything has its space, everything is exactly where it’s meant to be. It’s warm. Lived in. More like a home, less like a cell. Staldar feels like an intruder.

 

He runs his errand, returns, and as promised, they have tea and bread (“Oh, you’ll love this, have you ever tried sun dried tomatoes? They taste so good with this cut I got from the butcher, with the bread toasted just so, here--!”). To Staldar’s surprise, while Sinead is curious, they mostly keep their chit-chat blessedly shallow, surface level and indirect. They don’t seem to mind that Staldar has very little to say, and when he does speak, he’s vague and perhaps a little clumsy with his replies. It eases the fear that Staldar will somehow commit some social faux pas, reveal how terrible he actually is, cause some kind of offense to the little half-elf. He doesn’t need to be loved. But he doesn’t want to be hated.

 

He gets the feeling that Sinead, while a congenial host, is also very lonely.

 

So, it is with some surprise,Staldar takes note that Sinead stops knocking on his door every few evenings. In fact, the usual humming and shuffling and distant, muffled sounds of life cease altogether one day. Unsettled, Staldar opts to simply wait. ‘ _ You’re merely acquaintances, don’t pry, don’t intrude, they are not my concern. Maybe they finally grew tired of me. _ ’

 

The next day, there is an unusual amount of shuffling and hushed speaking in the halls and the neighboring room. Eventually, after this goes on for some time, his concern growing, he takes it upon himself to investigate, poking his head out of his door.

 

Sinead’s door is open, belongings in little piles and boxes strewn about the hall. Miss Estella is leaning against the opposite wall, lips pursed to her thin little smoking piece, inhaling. She releases the smoke with a big sigh, mouth curled in displeasure. She notices Staldar and gives a tiny nod, uncharacteristically closed off. She takes another drag.

 

Staldar pads over, suppressing the spike of fear he feels.

 

“Miss Estella,” he greets quietly, looking between her and the door. Two men he’s never seen before are putting all of Sinead’s belongings into crates and chests. Sinead themself is nowhere to be seen.

 

“Hello, Staldar.” Her voice lacks its usual vibrance. Normally she’d launch right into asking Staldar about his days, gossip a bit about the other tenants, nag him about looking too tired. Now, however, she is disconcertingly somber.

 

“The half-elf, Sinead… something has happened.” It’s both a question and not. It’s obvious that they aren’t simply moving. Miss Estella exhales smoke out slowly through her nose.

 

“They’ve… fallen ill,” she replies. “And it’s not certain when,” there’s an unspoken ‘if,’ “they may return.”

 

“Ill? That’s quite sudden. I saw them just days ago and they showed no signs of illness.” In fact, they always looked hale, sun-kissed and bright-eyed. Miss Estella shakes her head gently.

 

“Not that sort of ill. They, uh-- well, just look for yourself,” she mutters, nodding stiffly toward a canvas bag, marked to be discarded. “The poor thing, to go and do  _ that _ , it breaks my heart.”

 

Staldar moves to peer into the bag, and inside he is shocked to see a pile of linens, darkened with a frightening amount dried blood. Staldar turns his head, jaw clenched. ‘ _ I don’t understand. They seemed so-- Why--’ _

 

“I’m storing as much as I can for them, but I simply don’t have room for all their belongings. And they don’t exactly have any family or friends to give their possessions to,” she laments, leafing through a clearly well-loved book before returning it to its stack. “What I can’t put in storage, it’s just going to get tossed or pawned.” Staldar’s mouth moves before he really thinks.

 

“I have room.” And, while the statement is true-- his room is practically empty-- he realizes what a strange offer it is. Miss Estella simply looks up at him, eyes wide with surprise. “I could store what you can’t for now.”

 

“That's-- I appreciate that, truly, but that's much too big of an ask.”

 

“You're not asking, I'm offering,” he corrects, voice flat and matter-of-fact, watching the two men pack methodically. “It would be no burden. Of course, if you think Sinead would protest, were they here…” He lets the sentence trail off, not really wanting to complete that thought. His jaw tightens again.

 

“I’m sure they would be very grateful to have all of their belongings here when,”  _ if _ , “they come home.” There’s a beat of quiet. “They, um, they left a note and there are some things they wanted you to have.”   
  
“What?” Staldar is startled by this, not even sure he heard her correctly. She just briskly ducks into the room, and Staldar hesitates, wondering if he should follow. Something about entering the room now feels incredibly wrong. But she returns, a plant in a rather pretty clay pot in one hand, a book in the other. The leafy little  plant is slightly wilted, feeling the effects of some neglect, and the book is fairly weathered, tea and ink stained. She proffers the objects. Staldar, perplexed, stares for a moment.

 

“I… Why?” ‘ _ Why me?’ _

 

“The note didn’t say much. Just that you should have these. As in, to, um… to keep.” Her voice goes softer with the last statement, and Staldar gently takes the objects. “They… When Sinead did what they did, they hadn’t intended to--to…”

 

“To live,” Staldar finishes grimly. The stocky woman nods, a slight glisten to her eye and quiver to her lip, the smoking bit trembling with it. But she breathes in hard, exhales slow, and appears calm again.

 

“They had a change of heart before it was too late. But it was a near thing.”

 

Staldar looks at the little plant and remembers Sinead telling him that it was one of his favorites. He thinks of the days since their last visit, hearing the neighboring room slowly grow quiet, the little plant wilting right along with its caretaker.

 

And he thinks about himself, mere feet away, unaware, uncaring. He thinks about how he could have done. Should have done. The guilt he feels must show on his face, because Miss Estella sighs and speaks up, looking into the room.

 

“You feel bad. You are-- were-- their neighbor. They apparently grew fond of you, in the short time you’ve been here. I won’t lie and say there’s nothing you could have done, Staldar.” Her voice is neither sharp nor soft now. “There are things we all could have done. I think we all forgot, when someone is always checking on you, making sure you’re well, you should do the same for them.”

 

“If I hadn’t been so complacent--”

 

“This isn’t about you!” Staldar’s jaw snaps shut as her voice rises, taking on an unfamiliar edge. “I get it, the guilty feeling, the feeling like you didn’t do enough, like you could have stopped it, I get it. We’re all fucking guilty, every damn person who knows Sinead, we’re all guilty.” She deflates again, tired. “The truth is, we could have done everything to help Sinead through whatever pain they were feeling, whatever ache was in their heart, and there’s a chance they would have done it anyways.” She quickly dashes away a tear, still holding the little wooden stem between unhappy lips. Balancing the plant on the book in one hand, Staldar pulls a clean handkerchief from the inner breast pocket of his gambeson, holding it out to his landlord. She gratefully dabs away the wetness from her cheeks.

 

“What are we to do, then?”

 

“Wait. Be patient. Be here for them. Make it up to them as best we can when they come back.” An exhale of curling smoke. “That’s all we can do. And it will have to be enough.”

 

They move a few of the chests to a corner in Staldar’s room. He does not touch them.

 

He places the plant on his little window sill. It perks up with just a little water.

 

One day, he finally decides to flip through the worn little book, and is surprised to find it’s a book of ink sketches. Mostly, it’s full of people, people Staldar does not recognize. But there are sketches of Miss Estella, sketches of the bakers down the street, some of the other tenants he recognizes vaguely. They are all lovingly rendered, drawn with such care. Some bits are torn out, perhaps given as little gifts, or rehomed to other journals.

 

In the last few pages that aren’t blank, Staldar sees himself. The first few sketches are rough, apparently struggling to capture him. He can’t help the little chuckle that escapes him at the thought Sinead struggling to draw him, so different from the faces they usually etch. But after a few attempts, something must have clicked, because the resemblance is uncanny. Staldar is surprised to see even some of the smallest details of himself on paper, little scars hidden between scales, the gauge in the hard end of his nose, all very exact. The final sketch was one of him sitting at a table, presumably the one in Sinead’s room, head turned away, cradling a tiny little tea cup in his large claws, still full.

 

Staldar did not know he looked so sad, to Sinead.

 

His days become rather hollow again.

 

He waits, for something.

* * *

 


	26. The Law

* * *

**_“The Law”_ **

* * *

 

  
  


“ _ Stop _ !  _ Thief _ !”

 

As Staldar looks up at the sound of angry guards, a tiny form barrels into him and he instinctively reaches out to steady them, holding their shoulders with large, firm hands. He realizes they’re a rather scruffy looking human teen, thin, lanky, gaunt even. They’re holding a loaf of warm bread close to their chest and staring up at him with wide, frightened eyes.

 

“Halt! Ah, good, you’ve got him!” A pair of guards come skidding around a corner, eyes honing in on the scared boy before they begin stalking over. The boy goes pale, tries to duck out of Staldar’s grasp, but Staldar just squeezes, holds him in place.

 

“Please,  _ please _ , let me go, I’m sorry, I--I--,” he whispers frantically, beginning to shake. Staldar looks between the guards and the teen.

 

“You stole that?”

 

“I… I had to…” The youth begins to tremble in his grip. The guards are now upon them.

 

“We’ll take him from here, sir. Thank you for your assistance.” One guard is already pulling out manacles, the other reaching out toward the young thief. But something doesn’t sit right with Staldar, and he shifts back, pulling the boy closer to himself.

 

“It must be a slow day if chasing children around with iron shackles is your top priority,” He grumbles, and the guards noticeably bristle at this.

 

“No one is above or below the law, sir. Now, shove off or you’ll end up in chains as well for obstructing arrest,” one of the guards growls, puffing up a bit. Staldar stands firm, the thin boy quivering pathetically, whispering plaintively, “please, don’t let them take me, please help…”

 

Staldar sighs, then digs in his coin purse. He flicks a gold piece to one of the guard, who catches it deftly.

 

“That should cover the cost of the loaf twenty times over. Are we all quite finished here?”

 

The two guards look to one another before the one replaces the manacles and they relax their posture.

 

“You got damn lucky today, kid. Real damn lucky.” They turn to return to their posts, but not before one scowls and spits at Staldar’s feet. Staldar does not react to this. Seeing the guards vanish around a bend in the road, the boy lets out a shaky breath.

 

“Th-thank you,  _ thank you _ , mister!”

 

“Don’t thank me yet. Where did you get that?”

 

“Um, the bakery run by the older halfling couple, just a couple blocks from here…”

 

“I know the one. Follow me.” Staldar loosens his grip from his narrow shoulders and gently tugs on his elbow, pulling the boy along in the direction of the bakery. His expression grows confused and fearful once more.

 

“W-wait! You… you just paid for the loaf, didn’t you? Why--”

 

“They won’t take that gold to the baker, boy. I paid  _ them _ off to turn a blind eye. Your debts are yet to be paid.”

 

“O-oh…”

 

“If you’re old enough and well enough to be running from the guard, you’re old enough and well enough to work and earn coin so you won’t have to take from others.” The boy is silent at that, still wary, but compliant.

 

They reach the bakery, a painted wooden sign reading ‘ _ Goodbarrell’s Baked Goods _ ’, bell tinkling quietly as Staldar pushes his way through the door, youth in tow. At first, it seems no one is even there, but then Staldar hears some shuffling, some swearing.

 

“These damn streets just keep getting worse, I’m tellin’ ya! Rife with crime! It’s getting ridiculous!” A tiny, gray-haired halfling appears from the back, blustering and grumbling, wiping his hands on his little apron. He steps up onto a stool behind the counter before he finally looks at them.

 

“Sorry ‘bout that, how can I help y--  _ YOU _ ! Oh, you caught him then, haha! Ach, where did those guards go, they’ll make sure justice is dispensed!”

 

“Actually, if you’ll be so gracious, he’s here to apologize and pay what he owes,” Staldar intones, stepping up to the counter with the boy. The dragonborn slides another gold piece across the counter, and the halfling man raises a brow at this, but readily pockets the gold

 

“An apology, you say? Well, let’s hear it.” The halfling crosses his arms, waiting.

 

The youth swallows, looking between the halfling and the giant dragonborn behind him. Staldar sees the hesitation there, and pats a large, warm hand gently between his shoulder blades.

 

“Go on,” he says, quietly, but still firm. The boy bows his head, still cradling the bread.

 

“I’m so sorry, I’ll never do it again, I promise!” The kid spits out all in a breathless rush, flushed with shame and embarrassment. The baker hums thoughtfully, but a smile plays at the corner of his wrinkled mouth.

 

“Oh, alright. All is forgiven, I suppose. I hope you’ve appropriately thanked this, ah, gentleman for his generosity, young lad.”

 

“A-ah, of course! Thank you again, sir, really!”

 

Staldar just shakes his head and leans against the counter, speaking to the baker.

 

“I also come with a proposition for you, if you’ll hear it. This kid is fast; he outran two guards for several blocks. He’s fleet-footed and seems to know the city. Have you any need for a delivery boy?”

 

The baker looks surprised at this, then scratches his whiskery chin.

 

“Actually, our usual fella just upped and left us high and dry, so we really do need someone here bright n’ early to make our morning rounds. But, ah,” and his eye drifts over to the disheveled kid, standing awkwardly, still cradling his bread. “Well, how about this… If the kid can clean himself up a bit and make it here before dawn, we’ll work something out. What say you, boy? What’s your name?”

 

“T-Todd, sir!” The young boy, Todd, perks up.

 

“Think you can be here, oh, an hour before sunrise, Todd?”

 

“Yessir!”

 

“Good. I’m counting on it. Tardiness won’t be tolerated. Alright?”

 

“Yes! Yes Mr. Goodbarrell! I’ll be here, I promise! Thank you!”

 

“Yes, yes, now, why don’t you run along? See about getting a good wash in, eh?”

 

Todd blushes and stutters out a few more thanks to Staldar and the halfling then says his goodbyes before scurrying out with his prize, relieved and excited. The halfling chuckles as they watch the boy run off down the street for a new reason. Then the baker looks to Staldar, squinting.

 

“You’re familiar. I can’t put my finger on it but I’ve seen or heard of you from somewhere…”

 

A little spike of fear and chagrin strikes Staldar’s heart, and suddenly he feels nervous at being recognized. But then Mr. Goodbarrell speaks up again, putting his fears to rest.

 

“I know! Your missus Estella’s new tenant! I’ve seen you pass by and she spoke of you once. I’m sorry, I can’t what she called you by…”

 

“Staldar,” he replies, extending a hand out. The baker takes it in his own tiny, weathered hand and they shake.

 

“Well, Staldar, you did a rather kind thing and you look peaky yourself. Here,” and he steps down from his little stool, grabbing a little paper bag, taking two croissants from a warm rack and placing them carefully in the bag, before proffering the bag up to the dragonborn. “I’d say it’s on the house, but you just paid for a whole day’s worth of these.”

 

Staldar decides not to argue, taking the bag, and it is true, sleep and food had lost their appeal recently. The smell of bread was almost enticing enough to ignite his hunger,  _ almost _ appetizing, but not quite.

 

“Thank you,” he replies softly. “I hope the boy does well by you. Farewell.”

 

“Come by anytime, Mr. Staldar. We need good, strong men like you making the streets safer.”

 

_ ‘“Good, strong men…” Hardly…’ _

 

Staldar simply nods and heads out.

 

He does manage to eat the sweetened croissants later, and they make him feel a little less hollow.

* * *

 


	27. Waiting In The Dark

* * *

**_“Waiting In The Dark”_ **

* * *

 

 

Staldar knows that he is a selectively patient man-- both the unstoppable force and the immovable object. Now, however, his patience wears thin. He feels time slipping through his fingers like sand, and the grit was leaving him raw, agitated. First, he is forced to wait on Isa to awaken, then wait for arrangements to be made, wait for a  _ ball _ , of all things. If he is sick of anything, it’s all the godsdamned  _ waiting _ he’s had to do his entire life.

 

He knows he’s pushing too hard, knows he’s snappy, knows he’s being impatient, but can’t stop the sharpness of his tongue. He feels a pang for Cheeps when he shuts him down, regrets being so abrasive as Dahlia falls to the ground crying, and he feels like a bastard after answering Catherine’s questions with such hostility. But he doesn’t know how else to be. Every second cuts like a blade. After hearing his companions more heartfelt answers, guilt dampens his temper, and he treats the young ones with a little more care that evening. He would never admit it, but Dahlia’s diminutive, warm form on his back, and the little hand of Cheeps reaching for his own made him feel something soft, protective, almost saccharine. This doesn’t last. The thought of going to a  _ party _ , drinking, dancing, music, sleeping in a good bed, eating hearty food, while the man who gave his life purpose again languishes in prison makes his skin crawl and his stomach churn and leaves him all the more frustrated.

 

Staldar finds some relief in even a brief routine with Mizzdrift’s Watch as a volunteer. At least it makes him feel useful, it’s something familiar. He even uses the opportunity to learn something new, something he hopes not to put to use anytime soon.

 

The experience is… horrible, in ways as well.

 

The first thing that causes him such trouble is Folduin. It’s nothing personal. The man is kind and helpful, and Staldar owes him quite a lot for being so accommodating. But even the mention of his name reminds Staldar of the violated body of the elf and the heartbreak in Tosa’s eyes. And Staldar sees a bit of Tosa in Folduin, in ways, or perhaps it’s the other way around. This alone puts Staldar on edge.

 

Then, there is an accident in Alchemist Alley.

 

Mizzdrift is a nice enough town, not so troubled, large, unruly as Kyla, but Staldar hates everything about the little hub of business. The scents, the sounds, the predatory salesmen. If not for his companions, he’d likely be jailed for snuffing out the life of the man who sprayed him with a ‘feather frills’ potion. Staldar just wrapped the scarf Tosa gave tighter around his neck and stormed away before things escalated and he could impale the skeazy man on Filkiati. Being charmed into buying a superfluous potion later simply added insult to injury.

 

Part way through his week of volunteering, Staldar is assigned to walk the Alley’s beat with a member of the Watch, a young, cheerful drow named Risdal. While not necessarily happy about the situation, he is better prepared for what to expect and Risdal’s presence is a much needed buffer. But a rather deafening explosion quickly changes that.

 

Roughly thirty meters ahead of them, seemingly out of the blue, a storefront completely erupts, shrapnel flying in every direction, and they’re both almost thrown off their feet by the force of it. Staldar and Risdal both throw their hands up in a surprised, defensive motion but Staldar still feels a sting as a piece of glass cuts just under his left eye. His head rings painfully, blotting out all other sound, as he looks up, watching flames and smoke billowing out onto the street, shouting and screaming denizens, and the smell hits his nostrils in a hot, putrid wave, ingredients giving off horrible gases and scents. His vision swims for a moment, bile trying to rise in his throat, but the ringing stops and he hears and sees Risdal calling to him.

 

“Staldar! Staldar, come on, we have to help, you have to come,  _ Staldar--! _ ”

 

The dragonborn shakes his head in attempt to clear it, then dashes forward with the young drow, pushing through the fleeing crowd. Instincts and training kicking in, he barks out orders.

 

“Focus on getting as many people out here to safety as possible. I’ll worry about the fires and anyone trapped inside. Go!”

 

Risdal nods and sprints over to some citizens laid out on the ground from the blast. Staldar turns and runs straight into the smoking hole left by the detonation. Right away he feels heat radiating from almost every direction, flames licking up the shelves and walls. He ignores this, instead hunting for bodies, anyone, someone to pull out of the wreckage. He finds two people towards the back, near the melted remains of a cauldron, can smell their burnt flesh, fresh injuries, but alive all the same somehow, and throws both of them over each shoulder. He tries to ignore the sensation of gore seeping between his armor plates, the smell of drow blood mixed with alchemical decay, and the cloying smoke and soot in the air.

 

He carries the two bodies out into the street, as far from the explosion site as he can manage, before carefully arranging them on the ground. He wastes no time, and runs right back to the burning building. He surveys the flames for a second, thinking, calculating, then is forced to breathe in deep, before exhaling a long, cold breath. This stirs up more soot, smoke, and now steam, but the tactic works, and he methodically puts out all the flames he can.

 

When he finally stumbles out of the shambles, caked in blood and ashes, he sees that reinforcements have arrived with healers in tow. He sways in place for a moment, breathing slightly erratically, before trudging out of the broken glass and splinters. Folduin’s voice drifts over to him, but he doesn’t stop.

 

“Oh, thank Lolth, Staldar, come get checked out by a healer--”

 

“Prioritize the citizens. I’m uninjured,” he says in a hoarse monotone, not meeting the drow’s eyes.

 

“Staldar, I insist, you must have inhaled so much smoke and I see cuts on you.” Folduin reaches out to touch Staldar’s elbow, and the second he makes contact, Staldar turns with his teeth bared.

 

“Don’t  _ fucking  _ touch me,” he snarls, a growl rattling in his chest. He can feel himself trembling, and the growl loosens something in his throat. He gags, coughing, and the next thing he knows he’s heaving into a gutter, vomiting a mix of breakfast, acid, and dust, bracing himself against a stone wall, shuddering hard. He feels cold.

 

“Staldar, you aren’t well. You may not be one of my men officially, but consider this an order-- let a healer do their job. All the victims of the explosion are being taken care of,” Folduin states, not ungently. Staldar just breathes, shivering, conflicted. “They shouldn’t need to touch you to heal you. Just sit and let them work. That’s all I’m asking.”

 

“... Yes, sir,” Staldar whispers back, straightening up and turning back to face the other responders. Folduin quietly leads, relief palpable. As they get closer to the crowd, Folduin looks back at Staldar.

 

“Sit here while I get a healer for you, you look like you’re about to keel over.” Staldar does so with no argument, grunting as he lowers himself to the ground. Folduin just nods at the sight and walks brusquely over to one of the clerics flitting around, a pretty, delicate looking drow woman. He speaks close to her ear, and they both look in Staldar’s direction briefly before the cleric nods and heads over. Staldar does not look up as they approach.

 

“Hello, Folduin said you could use some healing. May I examine you? He explained you’d prefer not to be touched, I just need to look.” She tries to smile reassuringly, gently. Staldar side-eyes her for just a second, before nodding, eyes focusing on something in the distance. “Good, good, this shouldn’t take long.”

 

Every time Staldar blinks, he sees the ashen faces of the victims pulled from the rubble of the collapsed apartments. That day, the very same scent was in the air. He remembers all the bodies. He remembers feeling them fall limp, lifeless, right in his arms. He shudders again, digging his claws into the cobblestone bricks. The little drow speaks up from her silent work, hands glowing with divine magic.

 

“I… just thought you should know that, had you not acted as quickly and bravely as you had, well, there likely would have been casualties. Risdal told us everything. All these people, they’ll live and heal, even the two from the--”

 

“Do I have your clearance to leave?”

 

“W-what?”

 

“Am I healed? Are you done?”

 

“Oh, um, I suppose, I’ve healed what I can without--”

 

Staldar stands abruptly, without another word, and begins marching away from Alchemist’s Alley. The cleric stutters, calling out a “w-wait!” But no one makes any true effort to halt the dragonborn, simply watching him mechanically trek his way out.

 

Staldar, lost in painful reverie, doesn’t notice the stares or whispers, can hardly even feel each step he takes. Between flashes of memories of that massive tragedy intermingled with the fresh sounds, smells, and sights, he feels somehow far away, numb, but still too close to his own body. He manages to make it to The Gentle Bell without incident, though Aunt Grey blusters and tries to dote at the sight of him, still filthy and bloodied. A low growl makes her yield, and he stomps up the stairs to his room.

 

He doesn’t bother lighting anything, instead trying to find comfort in the dark and quiet, frayed and overstimulated as he is. He starts unbuckling his armor right where he stands, in front of the door, everything falling to the ground in a haphazard pile, until he’s left in nothing but his now dingy linens. Stepping over his discarded gear, which he knows will leave an unpleasant stain, he falls unceremoniously into the bed, which gives a loud creak.

 

He tries to lie still, but he is still wracked by little tremors, and even as exhausted as he is, he's restless, still coming down from the adrenaline. He presses his face into the clean, cool sheets, trying to focus on their sweet smell, something to cut through the acrid fumes clinging to him. Staldar lays buried under a messy nest of pillows and blankets, trying to quiet all the noise and chaos in his head, block everything out,  _ stop remembering, stop feeling, stop, STOP _ \--

 

A frantic knock at the door, and Dahlia’s muffled, concerned voice.

 

“Staldar, are you alright? I heard what happened, a guard came to the temple and-- and then they said you were here and Aunt Grey said you’re covered in  _ blood _ and--!” He hears the doorknob jiggle, but the locked door does not budge. “May I please come in? Just to check that you’re okay?”

 

With a growl Staldar wrenches himself from the bed, stomps over to the door in the dark, kicking his armor out of the way, before unlocking and swinging the door open to glare down at the little halfling.

 

“What do you want?”

 

“Gods, Staldar, you have so much blood on your--”   
  


“It’s not mine. Now,  _ what _ do you  _ want _ ?”

 

“I, I just, um…”

 

“I’m uninjured. I’ve been seen by a healer. I won’t be down for dinner. I don’t want to talk about it. I’ll see you in the morning. Now, please,  _ fuck off _ .”

 

Staldar slams the door in Dahlia’s dismayed face. After a moment, Staldar hears her retreating steps, and he releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Then the guilt sets in, gnawing on his already bruised heart.  _ ‘Why do I do that, why do I  _ always  _ do that?’ _

 

Staldar tiredly crawls back into the bed, laying on his back, staring up into the inky blackness. He feels something in him shift, give way, and tears well up, hot, briny in his eyes, before sliding down his face, collecting blood and ash along the way.

 

“Forgive me,” he croaks to no one. “Gods, please, forgive me.”

* * *

 


	28. Rust

* * *

**_“Rust”_ **

* * *

 

  
  


A body in motion stays in motion. A body at rest stays at rest.

 

When Staldar finally slows down in the months after his discharge, when there are no fights to be fought, when there’s no one to spar with, when his routine falters, his body starts to remember. It remembers every passing season, particularly the cold ones, every night spent on unforgiving cots or on the cold, hard ground. It remembers every blow, stab, cut, burn, and the scars sometimes throb and twinge as if they aren’t decades old. Sometimes, his muscles-- particularly his sides and lower back-- spasm, but it never lasts.

 

His joints, however, radiate the worst pain. It never relents.

 

When Dahlia offers healing, it helps for some time, and he remembers what it’s like not to hurt all the time, but there’s no escaping the passage of time. The ache always comes back, the very foundations of himself, where bone meets bone. His knees and hips give him trouble, carrying the weight of himself, his armor, Filkiati.

 

Sometimes, his wrists hurt so much that he fears he can’t wield Filkiati. He sometimes binds his hands and wrists under his gloves in an effort to provide extra support. Sometimes it's enough. Often times, it’s not. He grits his teeth when his sword crashes against wood and metal and he feels the impacts all the way up his shoulders, and he’s  _ really fucking sick of fighting evil automatons _ .

 

The cart ride is hell. He can’t even use driving the cart as a distraction, can’t even fall back on his usual exercises. He finds small ways to take his mind off the tingling, the screaming of his back and pelvis.

 

If he’s particularly stiff, robotic in movement, if he’s either too growly or particularly withdrawn, the others chalk it up to his general demeanor, his strict militaristic upbringing, the challenges they’re preparing to face.

 

If he finds himself faced with the urge to grunt or groan or complain, he simply doesn’t. Whinging wouldn’t get him anywhere.

 

He can always hold on a little longer.

* * *

 


	29. Holiday Spirits

* * *

**_“Holiday Spirits”_ **

* * *

 

  
  


Staldar feels a warmth he had not felt for a long time-- so much so that he can’t precisely remember the last time he felt this way.

 

Surrounded by all the people he cares most about, making music, laughing, drinking, no fear or uncertainty or darkness in their faces, Staldar is struck with the notion that, maybe, their lives could be more like this, eventually. Less grim, less violent, and just… this. Just the calm of enjoying one another’s company, finally allowed to relax and feel safe, if only for a brief moment.

 

There’s an ache in him that he has no word for, just a sense of ‘I never knew’: Never knew it could be this good, that he could have this, that he  _ wanted  _ this more than  _ anything _ . He would never be able to go back to the life he’d lived before, the thought of returning to that solitude filling him with fear so great, he’d sooner die.

 

Because he can’t take back the knowledge of what it’s like to hold a sleeping kenku to his chest, or feel his little arms around his shoulders. He can’t take back Dahlia’s tiny snores in his ear, nor her gentle hands reaching that spot on his back that he just can’t reach. He can’t take back the exhilaration of a late night spar on the roof tops, winded and happy, Tosa’s gloved hand reaching for his.

 

He can’t take back the warmth and weight of Yorsashi leaning into him, pulling him as close as he can, the heat of his breath against his throat, the smell of his scale oil.

 

As the night winds down, and party-goers disperse, some of their own group deciding to turn in, Yorsashi, wine-giddy and tired, having had his fill of socializing, and having made quick work of Catherine’s gift, gravitates back to Staldar’s side in stages. Between the lighthearted trading of stories and jokes, Yorsashi drifts back over to his spot in one of the booths, where Staldar samples a plate of pastries, listening to the music, watching contentedly as the others enjoy themselves. Yorsashi sidles up, flush with drink and excitement, giving him a fond touch, just making sure he’s feeling included. And as time wears on, he lingers a little longer, and longer, until he’s disinclined to leave at all, thoroughly drunk, drowsy, full, and apparently, in the mood to cuddle.

 

“Today was lovely,” he sighs, slurring only slightly, leaning against Staldar’s chest heavily. Staldar instinctively wraps an arm around him to steady him, hand resting on his waist.

 

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” Staldar rumbles quietly, smiling. Yorsashi squirms, turning himself around to wrap his own arms around Staldar.

 

“Mm-hmm!” He hums happily, rubbing his tired face against Staldar’s shoulder. “You’ve made such nice friends. Catherine is so sweet, and knows so much about Tiamat for a drow!” Staldar snorts.

 

“Catherine isn’t exactly a-- no, perhaps I’ll explain when you’re a little more lucid,” Staldar mumbles, shaking his head.

 

“Tosa is very interesting as well, he had such great stories to tell,” Yorsashi babbles on. He shoots a cheeky grin up at Staldar. “He told me he kicked your ass in a sparring match.”

 

“Did he now?”

 

“Well, my words, not his. I just find it amusing you finally met someone who could actually knock you down,” Yorsashi giggles. “Wish I could have seen it.”

 

“Hm. Maybe, when he’s fully recovered and we have some time, we can spar again. I’ve picked up a few new tricks since our last fight.”

 

“It’s no fun if you beat him,” Yorsashi whines. “You always won our sparring matches, it was very frustrating.”

 

“Sorry,  _ noachi _ … But you’re also a better archer and arbalist than I’ll ever be.”

 

“You’re a terrible archer,” Yorsashi affirms, hiding a mischievous smile in the crook of Staldar’s shoulder.

 

“I’m not that bad,” Staldar protests, but he smiles at Yorsashi’s playful antagonism, laughing.

 

“You pluck the string  _ every time _ !”

 

“Should I list everything wrong with your stance and grip when you wield any blade longer than a dirk? It’s a rather extensive list, we could be here a while.” Yorsashi just ‘hmph’s at Staldar’s criticism, wriggling once more in his arms. It’s awkward in the booth, but Yorsashi is determined to fit his body against Staldar’s, quickly pulling himself up to bury his nose into the interior of the collar of his gambeson. Staldar feels a flush of warmth across his face at the affection, pleased, but admittedly feeling a hint of embarrassment, looking out of the corner of his eyes to see if anyone were looking. Everyone is distracted by their own quiet conversations (and Cheeps is busy trying his new paints at the bar, though he’s starting to look drowsy), though Staldar is convinced for a moment that Catherine winks at him from across the room. She’s back to chatting so quickly that he’s unsure.

 

And then he startles, feeling Yorsashi sneak a hand into the front of his gambeson between the interior fastenings, quickly grabbing his narrow wrist to still him.

 

“S- _ settle down _ ,” Staldar asserts quietly, still smiling, but feeling an odd mix of amusement and fearful. He feels hot all the way down his chest, and he struggles to contain the cold puff of breath that threatens to spill and turn to steam in the warm air of the tavern. “Cheeps is right there!”

 

“Then let’s go elsewhere,” Yorsashi breathes, not letting up in even the slightest. His voice dips low, whispering up into his ear. “I could show you just how well I can wield a dirk.”

 

Staldar’s breath catches, and all he can get out is a small, choked squeak for a moment.

 

“ _ Yorsashi _ , please, n-not-- we’re in mixed company, and you’re inebriated,” Staldar croaks, managing to pry himself out of Yorsashi’s hold. “Maybe it’s time to call it a night.”

 

“Agreed,” Yorsashi says enthusiastically, pulling away to shuffle out of the booth. Staldar is surprised and relieved, following behind him after a moment, but just as he gets to his feet, Yorsashi stumbles, and Staldar rushes to support him. Yorsashi looks marginally sheepish for a moment, but is content to cling to Staldar’s side again, leaning his weight into him.

 

They begin to bid everyone good night, Staldar pulling out of Yorsashi’s arms briefly to lean down and hug Dahlia hastily and give Cheeps a fond pat (and asking Ilmya as an aside to make sure Cheeps gets tucked in at a reasonable hour), before leading a giggly, still-too-handsy Yorsashi away. If they hadn’t been receiving looks before, Staldar certainly felt them now.

 

Making it down the staircase to the basement is an exercise in care, Staldar half-heartedly shushing Yorsashi’s snickers at his own clumsiness.

 

“You’ll wake everyone who’s gone to bed, you silly drunk.”

 

“All the way down here in the basement? Unlikely,” Yorsashi retorts, before Staldar feels one of his hands drifting down his lower back, the other creeping back into the fold of his gambeson. His voice fills with heat, the barest hint of a growl, the intent of his words clear.“Why, I bet we could make quite a bit of noise before anyone would take notice.” Staldar stumbles at this, quickly swatting Yorsashi’s hands away, though his own begin to tremble ever so slightly.

  
  


“L-let’s just get you to bed,” Staldar replies flatly, trying to hide the way his heart stutters in his chest. Yorsashi just hums at him, letting himself be guided to their room.

 

Staldar sits Yorsashi on the bed to shut the door and light a candle, but as soon as the candle is lit, Yorsashi is at his back, arms reaching around to hug, nuzzling between his shoulder blades.

 

“ _ Vethparijan, _ ” he sighs, muffled, into the thick fabric.  _ My shield. _ Staldar’s heart swells, and he turns to return the embrace, leaning down to press his nose to the curve of Yorsashi’s jaw. He smells like herbal scale oil and sugar and bitter-sweet fermented fruit. Yorsashi makes a pleased sound at the gesture. “Felt you across the room all night. Saw you watching me,” he almost purrs, pressing himself flush against Staldar’s front. Staldar rumbles in response, easing him back towards the bed.

 

“I like seeing you happy. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you so...” Staldar struggles to find the words for a moment. “It’s difficult not to watch you,  _ vorrelim. _ ”  _ Beautiful _ . Yorsashi’s smile always did something to him, made him lose track of his thoughts and fill his chest with warmth. Yorsashi’s shining verdant scales and large, round, azure eyes, all aglow with contentment, Staldar knows he must have looked like a besotted fool, gazing at Yorsashi from a distance, but he doesn’t care. He’s beautiful. He’s  _ so beautiful _ .

Yorsashi reacts with a sharp intake of breath, and as the back of his knees touch the edge of the bed, he pulls Staldar down with him, and Staldar struggles to keep from simply falling onto him, grunting as his own knees hit the bed frame a little too hard.

 

“E-easy now.”

 

“Make love to me.”

 

Staldar freezes, blinking at the abrupt demand, suddenly completely unsure what to do or say. But Yorsashi’s hands start to roam, and his wine-stained tongue flicks out to lave the sensitive spot under his jaw, pulling a shudder from Staldar, who tries to pull away.

 

“Yorsashi, wait--”

 

“I’ve waited so many years,” Yorsashi whispers, almost plaintive. “I don’t want to wait anymore.” He begins to tug at Staldar’s gambeson, managing to undo a few buttons while licking up the hollow of his throat.

 

Staldar is caught, breathless, trying to gather himself, but Yorsashi’s heat threatens to consume him as well, and a part of him excited and nervous and overjoyed and scared to ruin this, but Staldar smells wine on his breath, feels his clumsy, fumbling fingers, and the decision is made. He tries to still Yorsashi’s hands in his own, but Yorsashi misunderstands, and entwines their fingers together, continuing to pull him down, down, until they’re parallel on the bed.

 

“ _ Si itov wux, irthiski.”  _ His voice drips with desire, warm honey on his tongue. “ _ Si itov wux.” _

 

“ _ Si itov wux kiri,”  _ Staldar replies earnestly. “But slow down,  _ noachi _ \--”

 

“If we go any slower, I’ll  _ die _ , just undress me already,” Yorsashi groans, a mix of arousal and impatience. He wriggles his hands free, going right back to pulling at Staldar’s gambeson, one leg sliding up between Staldar’s own, trying to bring their hips together. He must feel that Staldar isn’t exactly as...  _ receptive _ as he’d hoped, and he pauses, looking confused. “What’s wrong…?”

 

Staldar pulls Yorsashi’s hands away gently, fixing him with a meaningful look, trying to make him understand.

 

“I’m sorry, but… Not tonight,  _ vorrelim. _ Not like this.” He starts to press his nose to the palm of his hands, rather like the emotional night they’d had before, but Yorsashi pulls away, looking hurt, and Staldar’s stomach drops.

 

“Why are you rejecting me again?” Yorsashi’s voice wobbles threateningly. “I--  _ why--? _ ”

 

“Yorsashi, listen to me,” Staldar says urgently, moving to stroke Yorsashi’s face, but he shies away from the touch. “This is nothing like back then. Alright? This is nothing like when we were The Fangs. I’m not rejecting you--”

 

“You  _ are _ , though!” Yorsashi interrupts, voice rising in anger now. “I thought-- the bed and t-the matching rings a-and-- I thought,  _ finally _ , we could… that you…” Yorsashi just shakes his head, scooting out from under Staldar, curling around himself. “I don’t understand,” he whispers miserably, pulling his knees to his chest. Staldar’s throat constricts, and he sits next to Yorsashi, reaching out to comfort him. Yorsashi accepts the touches, but only reluctantly, staring at the wall.

 

“Yorsashi, look at me,” Staldar begs quietly. Yorsashi just growls, tucking his face into his knees. Staldar’s fear turns to hurt and annoyance, but he keeps it out of his voice, at least, as much as he can. “Yorsashi,  _ please _ look at me and listen to what I have to say. I won’t have us going to bed with misunderstandings between us. Not anymore. So, please, just look at me.” He swallows. “A-and if you decide you’re still upset with me after, then that’s fine. I’ll… find somewhere else to sleep tonight, I suppose…” The thought hurts entirely too much, but sleeping across the room is so much worse-- feeling the pull of the ring, with Yorsashi  _ right there _ … But nothing short of dismemberment would convince him to take the ring off.

 

Yorsashi lifts his face from his knees, looking completely dejected, but he faces Staldar, meeting his eyes. Staldar almost breathes a sigh of relief.

 

“Yorsashi,  _ ethe-itov _ , I promise you, I’m not pushing you away. Things are different now. I’m… I’m different now. I think. I hope. I don’t want to run and hide and lie anymore. I’m not saying no to  _ you _ this time. But we’re not… doing  _ that _ tonight.”

 

“But  _ why?”  _ Yorsashi croaks. When Staldar reaches out to stroke his face, Yorsashi leans into it, given up on being angry.

 

“I’m fifty years old, Yorsashi. I’m fifty, and I know you’re not far behind, but you’re more… I love you, and I-I,” Staldar stutters hard for a moment, blushing, unable to spit out his words. “You make me feel things no one else does. You are… so beautiful, and I want you. Want to be with you, intimately. I need you to trust that, even when my body doesn’t, ah, cooperate.” Staldar pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath. “But, even if I could, you’re drunk--”   
  


“I’m not  _ that _ drunk,” Yorsashi protests. “I know what I want, I--”

 

“You nearly finished a full bottle of wine by yourself. That, and whatever you may have been drinking before then. Maybe you don’t feel very drunk, but you aren’t sober.” Yorsashi has nothing to say to this, so Staldar continues. “I would want us both clear-headed a-and sure and… I don’t want to rush this and fumble, I-I want to know how to make our first time,” Staldar feels himself blush like a flustered schoolboy as he says it, “special for you. I want to learn how to be with you.” When Staldar meets Yorsashi’s eyes again, they’re wide, full of conflicting emotions.

 

“O-oh,” he says, very quietly. Staldar smiles at him, gesturing that he wishes to hold Yorsashi, who embraces him back, practically laying across his lap.

 

“Yes. ‘Oh.’ Perhaps I should have made all of this more clear to you from the start. I’m sorry. We haven’t really talked about… expectations. Boundaries. I’m still not even sure what I should call you, should others ask what you are to me.”

 

“I rather like the sound of ‘lovers,’” Yorsashi says with a small grin, head resting on Staldar’s shoulder.

 

“I suppose it’s still too early for ‘fiancees,’” Staldar hums quietly, thinking out loud, and Yorsashi gasps and pulls back, blinking up at Staldar, and Staldar realizes what he’s just said.

 

“S- _ Staldar!” _

 

“S-sorry, I’m-- I didn’t mean to presume, of course, only if you-- I didn’t mean for this to be a proposal, truly, it’s still too dangerous to really think a-about marriage b-but,” Staldar backpedals a little, cursing his unthinking tongue for a moment before finding the right words. “I never really thought about the future much, until recently. I… didn’t think I had much to look forward to, until I found you again. Things between you and I are still so new and, ah, uncertain. I’m still learning how to be  _ us _ , not just  _ me _ anymore, so… so I’m not proposing, not really, but I-- when things are safer, when our names are cleared, and when we’re both actually ready, I think I’d want to. Properly. Maybe with nicer, prettier rings,” Staldar chuckles. Yorsashi laughs wetly, resting his against Staldar’s chest, fiddling with his ring.

 

“I think I’d want that, too. I think I’ve wanted that about as long as… well, other things,” and Staldar sees a faint flush across his olivine face. Staldar rumbles happily, bumping his nose against the top of Yorsashi’s head.

 

“I want everything with you,” He says quietly, and Yorsashi leans up to press their noses together. There’s a quiet moment where they simply hold each other, Staldar rubbing Yorsashi’s back soothingly, the little dragonborn slowly melting against him. “I think it’s time for bed,” Staldar whispers, and Yorsashi just makes a tired sound of agreement.

 

They shed their day clothes, Yorsashi needing a little help with the knots and buttons of his own outfit, then begin to settle under the covers. Staldar makes a point of wrapping himself around Yorsashi’s back, holding him close from behind.

 

“I think it’s my turn to hold you,  _ ethe-itov _ .”

 

“You’ll find no complaints here,” Yorsashi yawns, curling tight around the arm draped across him.

 

Staldar leans up momentarily to blow out the candle, resettling. There’s a moment of silence, only the soft creak of wood above, before Yorsashi’s small, tired voice speaks up again.

 

“I’m sorry I was so… pushy and testy. Maybe I did drink too much.” There’s a quality to his voice that says he’s already feeling poorly, and Staldar just pets him softly, hushing him.

 

“There’s nothing to forgive,  _ noachi _ . Try to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning,” Staldar soothes.

 

“ _ Si itov wux _ ,” Yorsashi breathes.

 

“ _ Si itov wux, _ ” Staldar replies.

 

Yorsashi is gone, after that, falling immediately into a heavy sleep. Staldar is sure Yorsashi will actually  feel terrible in the morning, but with any luck, his newfound talents would help with a hangover.

 

There were going to be quite a few hangovers in the morning.

 

Hopefully the others would forgive his favoritism.

* * *

 


	30. Never Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place the evening and morning before this conversation: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19828786/chapters/46953256

* * *

**_“Never Left”_ **

* * *

 

 

The explosion is brief, a flash of flame and light, a startling  _ boom _ , glass and wood and stone fracturing from the pressure. It’s only a second, but Staldar’s ears seem to ring for much longer, and when he blinks, the flash is imprinted on the backs of his eyelids. He’s stunned for a long moment, shocked.  _ ‘Not again, not again, no more.’ _

 

Dust and smoke begin to billow out, and while the odor is strong, it’s more akin to the smell of the exhaust released by the trains or airships, not burning alchemical components. It's enough to keep him grounded, though his head swims and fear threatens to take hold. He sees a glimpse of black feathers darting away, and lets himself breathe a tiny sigh of relief.  _ ‘He’s resourceful, he’ll be alright just a bit longer. Focus.’ _

 

The elf in front of him watches as chaos breaks out below, and Staldar takes advantage of the distraction, quickly clapping a gloved palm over his mouth, letting his claws press threateningly against the thin skin of his throat. He jerks, in surprise and terror, but Staldar just holds him steady, tightening his grip.

 

He hates how easy it comes, playing the predator.

 

“Don’t scream,” he growls,  _ sotto voce _ , directly into his ear— he can barely hear himself over shouts and sirens and crackling fire. He’s still addled from the initial explosion, but the frantic nodding and vibrations against his hand are enough confirmation for him that the elf will be no trouble, He manhandles him towards the safe, instructing him to open it, and he goes, readily.

 

Screams and shouts continue to rise from the main floor. Staldar chances a glance through the window.

 

Pandamonium has broken loose.

 

He tears his eyes away, blinking hard.

 

_ ‘They disobeyed my orders.’  _ Orders? He gave orders?  _ ‘Broken formation. Excessive force. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy. Discipline needed.’ _ He hadn’t employed disciplinary measures in years, why would he—

 

The safe opens.

 

Intelligence. Gather the intelligence. He knows his directive, he can accomplish that. He gathers up all the documents contained, and almost as an afterthought, the gold held within.

 

He pulls the man upright, but pauses, a frisson of doubt stilling him.

 

More shrieks of terror and pain echo between the blare of the alarms, and he drags the man back to the window to assess. To his dismay, the situation appears to have only devolved further and further. Calling it a battle would be generous, as his team easily overwhelms the Shil-kur goons, to the point where Amity has left a bloody trail in his wake.

 

_ ‘This isn’t what I wanted _ .’

 

_ ‘It doesn’t matter what you want.’ _

 

_ ‘No, no, I  _ **_don’t want this_ ** _.’ _

 

_ ‘There is no “want.” Only duty. Do your duty _ .’

 

“Shut up,” he hisses, shaking his head, leaning against the glass. The elf gives a pained whimper, stuttering.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, don’t hurt me, I—”

 

“Oh, shut  _ up,”  _ he barks, shaking the elf. Gods, but he can’t think, between the sirens and the smoke and the screams. It wasn’t meant to go like this, this wasn’t the plan.  _ ‘You’ve lost control of the situation. How will you rectify this?’ _

 

“I-I’ll give you whatever you like, I’ll do as you say, just please…”

 

“Silence!” He commands, shoving the man hard against the glass. “Be  _ silent _ !”  _ ‘If he won’t be quiet, make him quiet.’ _

 

A spiderweb of cracks and breaks spread outward from behind the elf’s head, and he gives a choked cry of pain and fear.

 

_ ‘Why isn’t he neutralized yet? Be done with him and complete your task.’ _

 

“P-please—”

 

Staldar grabs him by his throat, small, delicate, and presses.

 

The glass shatters, and his momentum carries Staldar through the motion, until the man is tilting over the edge. And then his feet are off the floor, and he’s too heavy, falling too quickly for Staldar to regain his grip, to pull him back up, and in an instant, he’s on the floor with a grotesque  _ whump _ . He’s landed entirely wrong, his neck, or his head, something critical taking the brunt of the fall.

 

Staldar blinks. A heap of cloth and hair. He blinks again. A circle of blood begins to grow around his head like a terrible halo, a crown of misdeed and misfortune.

 

Staldar slowly straightens, backing out of the window, stilling the tremble in his limbs. His mouth tastes of copper, iron, metallic, and his stomach roils unpleasantly. He breathes. And breathes. Until everything but the task in front of him is gone. He turns, and in one swift motion he grabs a leather satchel from beside the desk and sweeps all the paperwork the elf had been scanning into the bag. Intelligence secured, he storms out, rushing down the stairs and toward one of the doors. He pauses only briefly to throw up a hand signal to the team, then realizes they wouldn’t understand— he quickly corrects himself, broadly gesturing for them all to make a quick get away.

 

His feet hit cobblestone, fresh air hitting him like water, and his head feels just a little more clear. There’s no time to feel relief, however, as dismayed workers stand in a sad little half-circle around the burning factory, haggard and worried. And then their eyes catch sight of him, and show fear, suspicion, confusion. He sighs, pulling out the bag of coin from the safe, tossing it at their feet.

 

“You didn’t see anything,” he rumbles, meeting all their eyes, ignoring how it makes his skin prickle. One man scoops up the bag, and peers inside, eyebrows shooting up, nudges the guy beside him, shows him the contents, same reaction. They all look between one another and slowly begin to nod, one by one, backing away.

 

One less thing to worry about, at least.

 

But they’ve already spent too much time here, have gained too much attention too quickly, and he can already hear clamor from the guard, their enormous golem-like patrols trundling along with them. Cursing under his breath, he darts into the nearest alley-way, trusting that the others are close behind. He hears their voices, Dahlia debating whether or not she should cast something to destroy more of the factory’s equipment.

 

The guards are encroaching faster. They’ve done enough. Staldar says as much, focusing on escaping. His ring pulls towards Yorsashi, the gentle tug keeping him grounded. He just needs to follow it, he just needs to focus.

 

Dahlia and Amity collide, and they bicker. A guard shouts, noticing.

 

_ Gods damn it all. _

 

They all dart in different directions, Amity taking to the air, Dahlia and Cheeps pairing off, he and Norgol running in the opposite direction. His heart thunders between his ears. He almost doesn’t hear Norgol’s offer to polymorph.

 

“Yes, yes, whatever you can do, just  _ do it _ ,” he hisses.

 

And then he’s on the ground.

 

Or rather, the ground rises to meet him as he rapidly shrinks, scales softening into fur, claws turning to little dexterous paws. His spine elongates, extends, and a tail sways behind him. He barely has time to adjust, get his bearings, sensitive ears acutely picking up the sound of armored footsteps, whiskers feeling the tremors of their chase.

 

He watches Norgol exit the alley, ducking into the nearest tavern.

 

He uses his instincts to navigate, focusing on not being trodden underfoot, but the world is suddenly significantly larger, and it takes time to traverse the streets, searching for the right opportunities to scurry out into the open. In the strange way of magic, his ring doesn’t work, isn’t truly there anymore, so he simply tries his best to guess which direction he needs to run.

 

It’s a strange thing, being an animal, a rat or a mouse, he isn’t sure, something with white fur and pink paws; his thoughts are still his own, his actions his own, but his senses are strange, his mind structured very differently. His fear is almost simplified, compared to what he was feeling before, full of painful memories and regrets and bitterness, his focus is further narrowed down to  _ survive, survive, survive _ .

 

He runs for quite a long time, until, finally the spell ends, and he’s between two dingy, somewhat dilapidated buildings on his hands and knees, panting, shaking. He slowly stands, bipedal once more, leaning on the stone. He’s far enough now that the commotion is quieter, calmer. His ring reawakens on his finger, and he can follow its pull once more. His mind is full of noise again, and he so badly wants silence.

 

He trudges towards the Den, putting just a little haste in his tired gait.

 

He arrives, but the expected flood of relief of making it to safety doesn’t come. He’s wracked by shivers, adrenaline, fear, disgust. He feels more than sees Amity appear next to him.Yorsashi rushes up to him, and part of him wants to embrace him, touch him, let himself be touched back, but the contact feels like being burned, like pins and needles, so he shies away, offering some curt words to Tosa and brings the intelligence down to the war room. Yorsashi and Tosa follow, concerned. He places all the paperwork down on the table.

 

“I’ll look over this now, see what I can find that will be useful for the morning. Probably won’t be able to go through all of it, but some of it, at least,” Tosa says, spreading out some of the documents, eyes glancing over them. He looks back up. “You should get some rest.”   
  
Stalar feels the muscles in his jaw tense. He would rather do anything than rest, right now.

 

“Perhaps with more eyes, we could learn more quickly—”

 

“We’ll have time when it’s light,” Tosa interrupts, not ungently.

 

Staldar nearly objects, but knows when he’s been denied.

 

“Very well. We’ll reconvene in the morning.”

 

“Of course,” Tosa says softly, smiling.

 

_ ‘You’re dismissed.’ _

 

Staldar swallows, fist clenched by his side, resisting the urge to lift it to his chest, It’s a near thing. Instead, he nods stiffly, and turns to walk back up the stairs, up to the rooms above, Yorsashi trailing behind.

 

In their room, he unbuckles his armor, letting it fall wear it may. Too heavy, too  _ hot _ , Gods, why is he suddenly so warm? The weight falls off of him in dull thuds. He loosens his gambeson, just enough to let him finally catch his breath. He’s tired, but anxious, caught between pacing and collapsing.

 

Yorsashi comes up behind him, placing a gentle hand on his arm.

 

“Are you alright?” He asks so softly, so full of worry, Staldar’s chest twists, painful. His touch is too much, his softness, his care. He resists the urge to bristle, to tense, to slap his hand a way and growl at him to stop. His constant patience, his kindness, it’s all so undeserved, how is he to explain how much it grates at him in this moment? There’s something in him that wants to be hit, slapped, scratched, andything, anything else, just to feel something other than what he’s feeling inside. At least then his guilt wouldn’t gnaw at him so, like a wretched dog with a well-loved bone.

 

“I’m fine,” he replies, inflectionless, shrugging away from him. He settles down at his desk.  _ ‘Dismissed. Enough. Leave me.’ _ He so desperately craves silence, space, just… anything, anything but his doting.  _ ‘Don’t ask me to bed. Don’t ask me to sleep. I can’t. I can’t.’ _ He doesn’t want to dream tonight, doesn’t even want to chance it. And the feeling of impending doom, that he’s finally given them away, that someone would come for them, it all nags at him, quiet, but persistent.

 

“So, that’s a ‘no’ then,” Yorsashi says quietly. “If you want to talk about it, let me know. I’ll be here.” He begins getting ready for bed.

 

With a shaking hand, Staldar stares down at the papers in front of him, searching for anything to distract himself, anything to keep his own thoughts at bay. He tries rewriting passages from books he remembers, bits of things, tries to write them from memory.

 

_ ‘Creating a magical bond between mage and weapon makes the wielder nearly impossible to disarm  _ **_the presumed leader of the operation, holding the target captive_ ** _ while conscious. This bond is not easily broken, excepting that the mage wills it to be. Two bonds is the most all recorded war mages have forged, as attempting a third bond breaks  _ **_the window_ ** _ one of the former, as it is understood these arcane tethers draw upon the mage’s passive  _ **_while conducting a search for_ ** _ magical conductivity, a limited, if vague, resource. _

 

_ The bonded weapon cannot be summoned across the planes of existence. Whether this is caused by the indefinite planar interruption  _ **_by an unprecedented explosion in the neighboring room above the factory floor. Cause and nature of the explosion is yet unknown…’_ **

 

“We should talk about this, Staldar.”

 

Staldar blinks, and it’s morning, his candle burned down to a pitiful pile of wax, his hands and parchment stained and smeared with ink. He looks down and remembers what it was that he was doing— a report, as per usual.

 

“You’re not okay,” Yorsashi says from over Staldar’s shoulder. Staldar sighs, stilling his quill for a moment. He doesn’t have time for this.

 

“Talk about what?”

 

“Just… you? What’s going on? What are you thinking about? What happened?” He gestures to the papers. “I mean, I see rough details of what happened, but… I’ve never known you to be a heavy sleeper but you haven’t missed a night in a while now.”

 

Did Yorsashi let himself in? What is he talking about? He always pulls long nights when a report is due, Yorsashi knows this. Staldar shakes his head.

 

“We completed a mission, accomplished our goals. We do that all the time. I don’t see what the confusion is,” Staldar says dismissively.

 

“You don’t… You don’t seem the same, you’re acting like… like before,” Yorsashi says sadly.

 

“Before what, Major?” Staldar questions gruffly, growing weary of Yorsashi’s vague implications. Yorsashi knows better than to distract him— did Staldar let him in? He doesn’t remember hearing a knock at the door.

 

“I’m not a Major, Staldar! Neither are you,” Yorsashi says firmly. Staldar furrows his brow.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“We’re not in the guard anymore, Staldar. We don’t have ranks. We do what we do because we want to,” Yorsashi insists.

 

Staldar blinks at this, confused, and growing agitated. Why would Yorsahi think they’d been discharged? Why would he spout such nonsense? Why won’t he just leave him to his work?

 

“We do what we do because we  _ have _ to,” Staldar rumbles. “We’re simply doing our duty, that’s—!” He shakes his head, and turns back to the parchment. “I don’t have time for this, I need to finish this report—”

 

“You don’t have anyone to report  _ to _ anymore, Staldar! You could  _ tell _ Tosa, because he’d be interested. There’s no chain of command here,” Yorsashi interrupts, placing a hand over Staldar’s report, blocking him, voice growing more and more desperate. “W-we don’t have… You’re kind of scaring me, Staldar! We’re not there anymore! We’re  _ here,  _ here, in the Den! With me!” And then Yorsashi’s hand is covering his, and he crouches, trying to meet Staldar’s eyes. His eyes are intense, sincere, full of fear and… something else. His eyes look different.

 

He looks around himself and realizes, startled, that he’s not in his quarters, not even in the garrison.

 

He’s hit with a wave of dizziness, disorientation, exhaustion. His heart lurches in his chest, as several realizations hit him at once.

 

Oh. Oh no.

 

He looks back to Yorsashi, blinking as clarity returns to him. He sets the quill down. He doesn’t know what to say for a moment, simply inhaling, then exhaling, trying to steady himself.

 

“I… um…” His voice is meek to his own ears, unsure. What could he possibly say, right now? “I’m sorry.” It’s nearly a whisper. It feels like defeat, a pitiful offering compared to what’s just happened, but it’s all he has. He’s so shocked, so disappointed with himself, he doesn't know what else to say. His throat feels tight, his temple pulses. He’s suddenly very tired, tired and upset and  _ cold _ , cold in a way he rarely ever feels.

 

But Yorsashi leans into him, gathers him into his arms, and holds, squeezes him tight.

 

“It’s okay” he says gently. And somehow, just like that, he’s forgiven. Staldar feels as though he could cry, part of him wants to, but he doesn’t, it won’t come, or he won’t let himself, he doesn’t even know. He just lets himself be held, unable to react, except to lean into Yorsashi’s touch, soaking up his warmth. There’s a hollowness in him, a yawning, empty cavern, a sense of hopelessness, despair, and it threatens to swallow him whole. Yorsashi’s touch helps.

 

“Do you want to try to sleep?” Yorsashi asks into his ear. He leans back a little, meeting his eyes again. “Or do you want me to get you a cup of coffee?”

 

Right. The morning. There would be much to discuss with the others, and Tosa would likely have new information for them. He sits up, clearing his throat.

 

“We… we have a lot to do today, I— let’s… Give me a moment and I can come down, and… we can have breakfast,” he says, almost trying to convince himself that they could just have a normal morning. At the very least, he could try. Yorsashi pulls away a little more.

 

“Just know that… I’m here for you, okay?”

 

“I… I know,” Staldar says, trying to offer him a small smile, but it feels wrong on his face, as empty as the cavity in his chest.

 

The day continues as normal. They do learn quite a lot. More plans are made.

 

He also has some decisions to make.

  
  



	31. Let the Dawn Come

* * *

**_“Let the Dawn Come”_ **

* * *

 

  
  


Staldar awakens in the dark, as he does every morning, only the barest morning light streaming through the windows, pale and dim. Warm weight holds him down, Yorsashi’s sleeping form stretching languidly across him, sleep-soft, relaxed, chin tucked under Staldar’s own, legs tangled with his. Staldar slowly shifts, raising and arm to stroke along his back beneath the linens, gently rousing him. Yorsashi gives a little incoherent mumble, twitching, clinging closer.

 

“I’m getting up,  _ noachi _ ,” Staldar whispers, attempting to roll his groggy partner over. Yorsashi just squeezes tighter, hiding his face against Staldar’s chest.

 

“Mmmmnnnnnn.”

 

“You can rest, but I need to get up,  _ ethe-itov _ ,” Staldar coaxes, more firmly prying Yorsashi off, who yields with a hoarse little noise of discontent. Staldar rolls out of bed and Yorsashi immediately curls up in the freshly vacated warm-spot, and Staldar huffs, drawing the blankets back over the green dragonborn. He presses his nose to the top of Yorsashi’s head, giving his brow a gentle stroke. “ _ Si itov wux _ .”

 

“ _ S’tovux,”  _ he slurs, only vaguely tilting his face towards the touch, but immediately falling lax again, breathing becoming soft and even once more. Satisfied that Yorsashi wouldn’t stir again for some hours, Staldar sheds his nightshirt, taking a few moments to stretch, and then quietly performs a few sit ups, and then push-ups, keeping his movements subtle and his breathing quick but hushed. It’s just enough to shake off the last of the morning stiffness from his joints, get blood pumping, feeling alert and awake. Part of him misses doing drills, but he takes what he can get, given the circumstances.

 

He performs a few more morning ablutions in the vanity basin, cleaning his teeth, washing his face, and then donning a soft tunic and his gambeson, cinching the belt in. Routine completed, the morning light growing brighter, he picks up a small journal and ink pen from his desk, tucking them into the interior breast pocket, then toes his way out, mindful of the one board that likes to groan when tread upon on the way out, making his way down the hall.

 

Though It’s muffled, he faintly hears Norgol’s snores as he passes his and Juniper’s door. He’d sleep just a little longer, but he was never far behind Staldar, and certainly one of the first to dig into a hearty breakfast.

 

He nearly passes by Cheeps’ room to head down, but finds himself stopping momentarily, looking to the door.

 

More and more he’s been befuddled by his feelings towards the little kenku, as of late. One moment they’re sharing tender moments, the next they’re shouting each other down. One moment he’s cuddling up in his lap, hugging his knees, tugging his shirtsleeves, the next he’s stomping and glaring, feathers literally and figuratively ruffled, ready to snap and storm off at the drop of a pin.

 

It positively bewilders Staldar.

 

But somehow, despite everything, or maybe because of everything, he finds himself so endeared by him, so fond of him, so  _ terrified  _ of somehow losing him, but also… proud. So proud of the child, who acts with such bravery, such cunning, such tenacity, Staldar can scarcely believe it. When Cheeps was successful, when he opens up to Staldar, he felt such joy for him, so much care, so much that he couldn’t contain himself.

 

“My boy!” He'd practically shouted at the carnival, so happy for him.  _  “Moxt brenztcheen.”  _ He'd said it quietly to Cheeps after talking about his new ethereal benefactor. He still feels embarrassment at using the monikers, but in those moments, moments where he’d been so moved by him, it had felt so natural. That’s the part that scares him, he thinks.

 

He knows he loves him. He doesn’t know when he had the realization, but he knows it. Saying it is the hard part.

 

He gives in to the urge to try the door, finding it unlocked, to his mild surprise. He very cautiously opens the door, holding it carefully so it doesn’t creak. Cheeps is curled up in his bed, sleeping soundly, deeply. Not unusual for a child, maybe, but for a child with Cheeps’ history? Staldar wonders if having a home, people to watch and care for him had put him at ease, comforted him into easy, restful sleep. Staldar almost envies him; having Yorsashi near lets Staldar rest easier, but there’s still a part of him that’s always ready to reawaken at a moment’s notice, that keeps him up late and raises him early, getting no more rest than would fulfill his needs.

 

He looks about the room, noting scattered drawings, some little bits and baubles strewn about, a few cups and plates that had yet to find their way back down to the kitchen. He shakes his head and looks to Cheeps.

 

Pillows and blankets all askew, forming a little nest around the kenku, Staldar watches his chest rise and fall for a few inhales and exhales, and Staldar manages to resist the urge to reach his hand out and stroke the feathers on his head, but the temptation is strong. Instead he reaches for where the blanket has slipped down, and he gently tugs it back over his narrow shoulders, trying hard not to disturb him. Cheeps makes the tiniest little chirp in his slumber, wriggling under the blankets further, then falling back into that deep sleep.

 

“ _ Nhee nuwa’jimos,”  _ Staldar sighs, barely a breath. Hatchling. But not his. Not really.

 

_ ‘He could be,’ _ a treacherous little voice in the back of his head says.  _ ‘He already calls you “Dad.” And you don’t stop him.’ _ He shakes the thought, mentally shoving it away.

 

Something in Staldar has settled, having fulfilled some vague whim to watch over him, and he turns to leave. He sees the cups and plates again out of the corner of his eye, and ever so carefully collects them. With that, he does leave, quiet as he came.

 

The stairs squeak and groan under his weight, but he pads gently, not letting his footfall echo to the rooms below. But Staldar can already hear some activity in the kitchen, smell fresh bread being baked, coffee being brewed. The tavern is still mostly shadows, deserted and silent, tables still upturned, windows shuttered and covered by boards. He laments the strangely defensive nature the little hole-in-the-wall had taken on, barricaded against the world outside.  _ ‘This is temporary. Only temporary.’  _  He lets himself back behind the bar and peers through the door to the kitchen, seeing Ilmya, her short hair pulled back and out of her face. She throws up a brief smile and wave at him, but dives right back into breakfast preparations. Staldar nods his acknowledgement, and walks over to the sink, where he places the dishes and begins to roll up his sleeves.

 

“You know you don’t need to do that, Staldar,” Ilmya pipes up, pausing what she’s doing. Staldar waves her off, already scrubbing the crumb-covered dish.

 

“I don’t mind,” Staldar says simply, placing the dish in the drying rack, moving on to the next. Ilmya just shakes her head, going right back to chopping ingredients.

 

“Suit yourself.”

 

The kitchen goes back to relative quiet for a moment while Staldar finishes washing the few dishes. When he turns, wiping his hands, there’s a cup of coffee waiting for him. He glances up at Ilmya, but she’s just smiling softly down at the medley of potatoes and vegetables she’s chopping. Staldar takes the mug gratefully, raising it to her before making his way back out, sitting himself at the bar.

 

In the hush and cool of morn, he pulls out the little journal and the pen.

 

And for just an hour, he pretends that everything is alright.

 

And he writes, for once, just for himself.


End file.
